That first night, we didn’t go near the master bedroom. I made a bed for Noah in the downstairs study because he refused to sleep alone. Ava showered for nearly an hour in the guest suite and came out in one of the robes from the hall looking clean, beautiful, and heartbreakingly wary.
We ordered food from the only restaurant still open. Not because the house lacked a kitchen. Because nobody in my family was eating leftovers that night.
The weeks afterward were brutal in quieter ways.
Noah hid food in his room for a while. Bread in drawers. Apples under the bed. Half a granola bar inside a sneaker. Ava startled at footsteps. She apologized for things that were not mistakes. She asked before using rooms in her own house.
I didn’t ask to be forgiven.
I cooked. I cleaned. I sat with Noah while he ate. I took Ava to the bank and opened accounts in her own name. I walked her through the deed, the trust, the codes, every hidden thing I had once thought it was loving to carry alone.