I read it with Lucy asleep against my chest. I didn’t reply immediately. Before, I would have felt guilty. Before, I would have thought about the family, about what people would say, about how a girl “needs her dad.” But that morning, while the sun poured through the window and the city roared outside, I understood something simple: my daughter needed peace before last names.

I wrote just one line. “Everything will be handled legally.” Then I locked my screen.

Months later, when I could walk without pain and sleep for more than three hours straight, I took Lucy to the park. Dogs were running around the fountain, kids were eating popsicles, and a woman was selling coffee in styrofoam cups.

I sat on a bench holding my baby. She was wearing a yellow beanie, the same one I was folding that night in the living room while David tried to intimidate me.

Paige arrived with two coffees and a bag of pastries. —”How is my favorite goddaughter?” —”Asleep. Pretending to be calm.” —”Just like her mom.”

I laughed. For the first time in a long time, laughing didn’t hurt.

The legal process was ongoing. David was fighting for supervised visits. Valerie had her son and, from what I heard, was also demanding child support. Alice kept saying everything was my fault, because there are people who would rather set their house on fire than admit they were hoarding gasoline.