My granddaughter called me from the hospital at 3:17 in the morning, and before I even reached the ER, I already knew this was the night everything in our family would finally come into the open.

“I left the house,” she said. “After the second interview with the county investigator. I’m at Janine’s. I filed for divorce yesterday.”

I closed my eyes for one second. Not out of relief. Out of recalibration.

“Good,” I said.

“I don’t expect Brooke to want to see me.”

“She doesn’t.”

The line was silent.

“But,” I said, “therapy exists for reasons larger than shame. If you intend to rebuild anything with her, that process will not begin with apologies alone.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know yet. But perhaps you will.”

The first supervised visit between Diane and Brooke happened in Camille’s office six weeks later. Brooke asked me to drive her there but not to stay in the room. I agreed. Children do not heal by having their elders script every boundary for them, though I will admit every instinct in me wanted to sit between them like a wall made of orthopedic steel.

Camille met us in the lobby. “Brooke, ready?”

Brooke nodded.

Then she turned to me. “Will you be here the whole time?”

“Yes.”

She considered that. “Okay.”

She walked into the room on her own.