her lip and no fear in her hands.
The scars on her palms were still there if you knew where to look, fine pale reminders of what had happened in that perfect-looking house.
But they were no longer the end of the story.
In our kitchen, with bread cooling on the counter and no one mistaking cruelty for character, my daughter finally understood something Janice never did: a lesson built on pain deserves consequences, and a child deserves safety before anyone else’s image.
That was the end of it.
Not because we forgot, but because we finished it.
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