My phone rang while I was heading home. It was my six-year-old daughter, sobbing, saying she was in pain everywhere and terrified. I asked where her dad was. She said he was there—suffering too, helpless. I drove faster than I ever had, my heart pounding with fear. What I walked into moments later shattered every expectation I had.

The first night we slept back home, I sat on the floor outside Sophie’s room until nearly dawn, listening to her breathe.

Life didn’t magically return to normal. But it became intentional.

I stopped staying late at work. Michael took a different role that allowed him to be home more. We talked—really talked—about the illusion of safety we’d been living under, assuming that “nothing happening” meant everything was fine.

It doesn’t.

Now, every year on the anniversary of that night, we check every alarm together. Sophie presses the test button. Michael times the response. I watch them, reminded that love isn’t just presence—it’s prevention.

Continue reading…