composure to keep recording, morning after morning, instead of simply trying to survive each one and move on. I tell them the truth: I didn’t do it because I felt brave. I did it because some quiet, stubborn part of me refused to let my daughters grow up believing that what was happening to me, and eventually to them, was simply how things were supposed to be.
Some mornings now, usually early, before the girls wake up, I still find myself standing quietly in my kitchen, coffee in hand, simply grateful for the ordinary, undramatic silence of a house where nothing terrible is about to happen.
