Not me.

Not your mother.

You.

This is yours now, and what happens with it is yours to choose.” I sat very still on the edge of the bed, watching him hand our seven-year-old daughter a small red box and, along with it, something I had never seen an adult give a child in a situation like this.

Not comfort.

Not protection.

Something rarer and, I would come to understand, far more healing than either.