I put down the spoon. “I remember.”
She walked over to the back door. For a second, my heart seized. Was she scared? Was the trauma coming back?
She unlocked the door. She opened it.
The wind blew in, wet and cold. The sound of the rain was loud.
She stood there on the threshold, looking out into the dark, wet garden. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t hiding.
She slipped her hand into mine as I walked up beside her.
“Mom?” she said, her voice barely a whisper over the sound of the storm. “If my key ever stops working again… if I ever get locked out… you’ll be there, right?”
I squeezed her hand, tight enough to anchor us both to the earth.
“Always,” I said. “I will kick the door down if I have to. I will break the windows. You will never be on the outside again.”
She leaned her head against my arm. She watched the rain fall, not as a victim, but as a spectator.
“I know,” she said.
We stood there for a long time, watching the water nourish the garden we had planted together.
Behind us, the door stayed open. Warmth flowed out, and the storm stayed where it belonged—outside.
We were home.
