I stood after a while, after tucking her into bed properly, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Get some sleep. We’ll figure everything else out tomorrow.”
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for letting me dance again.”
My throat went tight. “Thank you for being brave enough to try.”
I kissed her forehead and left her room, closing the door quietly behind me. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall and let everything I’d been holding back hit me at once — the fear, the grief, the crushing weight of almost losing her again, not to death but to trauma. And then I let myself break.
CHAPTER 16
Sarah
I couldn’t sleep.
My brain gave up on rest and chose to spiral instead—replaying Lily’s face at the studio like a video I couldn’t pause. I’d watched her react to trauma in real time, watched her small body curl into itself while camera flashes went off outside.
Around midnight, I found myself scrolling through articles on childhood trauma and selective mutism, trying to understand what was happening in Lily’s brain when she shut down like that.
One article mentioned PTSD triggers in children who’d witnessed accidents—how sounds and lights could pull them back to the original trauma without warning, how the brain couldn’t distinguish past danger from present safety when those triggers hit.
I thought about the reporters, the flashing cameras, the shouting.
What had Lily’s accident really been like? I knew her mother had died, knew it had been a car crash, but I’d never looked up the details. Never felt like it was my place to go digging into their private tragedy.
But maybe understanding it would help me help her better.
I opened my laptop and typed Joana Valdez into the search bar, then hesitated. It felt invasive—like cracking open someone’s diary without permission.
But I was her therapist—sort of—and understanding her trauma wasn’t nosiness; it was part of helping her.
I hit enter.
The first results were restaurant reviews and food blog posts about Hector’s restaurants, mentions of “the late Joana Valdez” in profiles about his career. I scrolled past those to the news articles from two years ago.
Prominent Chef’s Wife Dies in Crash, Daughter Survives
I clicked on it. The article was short, written in that clipped news style that made tragedy sound like a weather report: two-car collision. Joana Valdez was pronounced dead at the scene, daughter Lily transported to hospital with minor injuries, and the other driver also deceased.
I sat up straighter. Minor injuries meant Lily had been conscious—had probably seen everything.
No wonder the cameras had sent her into a panic.
I clicked on another article, this one with photos—Hector in a black suit looking like someone had hollowed him out and left just the shell, Lily beside him in a dark dress with her small hand in his, her face completely expressionless.
My chest ached looking at it.
More articles loaded: pictures of the memorial service where hundreds of people had shown up, quotes from other chefs calling Joana “the heart of the family” and “an incredible mother.”
I kept scrolling, looking for information about the accident itself. Most articles focused on Joana and the tragedy of a youngmother dying, a talented chef losing his wife. The other driver was barely mentioned—just “intoxicated” and “crossed into oncoming traffic” and “died on impact.”
Another villain-of-the-week story. Some nameless drunk who’d destroyed a family and then conveniently died so no one had to think about him anymore.
I knew that feeling—had felt it myself when the hospital called to tell me my father was dead, that instant relief mixed with shame for feeling relieved.
I almost closed the laptop right then. I’d gotten what I came for: enough information to understand Lily’s triggers, to know why the cameras and noise had sent her back to that day. I didn’t need to know more.
