I needed the very first thing I did to be the ending of the kneeling, not because it accomplished anything, but because she had spent two years being taught, one day at a time, that this was simply her life now.

Some lessons can only be unlearned the same way they were taught, through the body, through a thing you can see.

She needed to watch the brush go.

And I needed her to know, before I said a single word about deeds or lawyers, that the daughter who had thrown it was never, under any circumstances, going to let it be put back in her hand.

Chapter 5 — What They Took