Sophie asked about the scars when she was eight.
The belt marks had faded, but one thin line still showed on my upper arm in summer.
She touched it gently.
“Grandma did that?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“And Daddy let her?”
I breathed slowly.
“Yes.”
Her face tightened.
“Why do I see Daddy then?”
“Because he worked for years to become safer. Because visits started only when you felt ready. Because you get to choose how close he comes.”
She thought about that.
“Do I have to forgive Grandma?”
“No.”
“Do I have to forgive Daddy?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I forgave myself first.”
Her eyes widened.
“For what?”
“For not seeing sooner. Even though it was not my fault.”
Sophie leaned against me.
“I forgive you too.”
I laughed through tears.
“Thank you, baby.”
She wiped my cheek with her sleeve.
Then she said, “Can we use Grandma’s old money to help another kid talk?”
Diane’s restitution.
Grandma Ruth’s fund.
Sophie’s therapy.
All tangled.
“Yes,” I said. “We can.”
That year, The Open Door Fund started paying for speech therapy for children who had witnessed domestic violence.
Sophie named the program Loud Hearts.
Marla cried when she heard.
So did I.
