My father sat across from her and offered her a small velvet box.
Inside lay a delicate silver necklace shaped like a star.
“This belonged to your mother,” he told her, “when she was exactly your age.”
Poppy lifted it out with enormous care.
“Was my mommy ever scared, like me?”
My father looked at me, and something in his face I hadn’t earned in years came back into it.
“Yes,” he said gently.
“She was.
But being brave doesn’t mean you never feel afraid, little one.
It means you decide that the fear doesn’t get to run your life.”