I’d said those same words to Joana. The last time I saw her. She’d been rushing out the door, she’d kissed my cheek and I’d said I love you and she’d laughed and said she knew and then she was gone.
I pulled Lily’s blanket up higher, tucked it around her small shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
She shifted slightly, made a small sound, but didn’t wake.
I stayed, watching her breathe, alive. Nothing could take her from me.
Physically, she was fine.
For the first few weeks, she’d seemed fine emotionally too. She asked questions about heaven, about when Mommy was coming home, and I’d given her answers I didn’t believe.‘Soon, sweetheart. She’s watching over you. She loves you so much.’
I’d thought I was helping. Thought I was protecting her from the full weight of it.
But children aren’t stupid. They know when you’re lying.
It happened slowly—like watching a plant die from lack of water. Lily began talking less. First the full sentences disappeared. Then just words here and there.
One day, she just stopped entirely. Woke up, went through her whole day, went to bed without making a single sound.
The doctors called it selective mutism. Said Lily could speak if she wanted to, but she’d chosen not to. According to them, it was a trauma response and she needed time and therapy and patience.
What they didn’t say was that it was my fault. That I’d lied to her about heaven and coming home and everything being okay.
Losing Joana had destroyed me. But not hearing my daughter’s voice for months, watching her retreat further inside herself every day, that was a different kind of hell.
Until Sarah.
I’d taken Lily to that restaurant for her birthday. Eight years old. Another birthday without her mother. I’d tried to make it special. Ordered her favorite food, brought balloons, bought a cupcake with a candle.
She’d stared at that candle lifelessly.
Then the waitress appeared. She had sung quietly, smiled like she actually cared instead of just doing her job.
And Lily had said “hurray.”
One word. Barely audible. But it was there.
I’d hired Sarah before I’d fully thought it through. Didn’t care that she wasn’t certified yet. I didn’t care about protocols or procedures. She’d gotten my daughter to speak and that was enough.
Six months later, Lily still wasn’t having conversations. But she used gestures now. Nodded yes, shook her head no.Sometimes, rarely, she’d say a single word. Usually when Sarah was around.
It was more than anyone else had managed. More than I’d dared hope for.
Sarah was loud—aggressively cheerful. She talked too much, laughed too easily, and seemed genuinely thrilled about everything. It was exhausting to be around. But Lily responded to it. Became more expressive. More present.
So I tolerated Sarah’s noise and her questions and her complete inability to follow proper boundaries. I watched their sessions from my office or through security feeds.
Tonight, I’d reacted on instinct—protective instinct. The same way I’d react if someone threatened Lily.
I stood, forcing myself to leave Lily’s room. Closed the door quietly behind me.
In my own room, I didn’t bother with the lights. Just stripped off my jacket, loosened my tie, and stood at the window looking out over the city. Manhattan at night. Millions of lights. Millions of people living their lives.
The nightmare came as always.
Joana’s car flipping. Me in the kitchen, completely unaware, chopping vegetables for a risotto while my wife died three miles away.
I woke up with my heart racing and my hand already reaching for my phone to check on Lily. I pulled up the camera feed to her room where she was still asleep, still curled around that elephant, still breathing.
