Six months later, the house was filled with laughter.

Lily, Mia, David, and Harper were sitting around the kitchen table, working on a science project. But this time, they weren’t hiding. They were loud. They were eating pizza. They were arguing about glue sticks.

They were being children.

Lily looked up at me from the table. Her face was fuller, the dark circles gone. The haunted look in her eyes had been replaced by a spark of resilience.

Later that evening, after the friends had gone home, Lily sat beside me on the couch. We watched the fire crackle in the hearth.

“Mom?” she whispered.

“Yes, baby?”

“I learned something,” she said thoughtfully. “I used to think being strong meant hiding your pain so you didn’t hurt the people you love.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder.

“But real strength isn’t hiding pain. It’s sharing it. It’s letting people help you fight.”

I kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, grateful for every breath, every moment of peace we had fought for.

“Yes, sweetheart,” I said. “We are stronger together. Always.”

She smiled—a real, bright smile that reached her eyes—and closed them, drifting off to sleep in safety.

For the first time in a long time, our home wasn’t just a house. It was a fortress. And we held the keys.