We celebrated in my backyard.
There were paper flowers, a small cake, and more balloons than any one-year-old needed.
Rachel wore a yellow dress and carried Lily beneath the same garage light that had recorded the truth.
At one point, Rachel stood beside me and watched her daughter chase bubbles across the grass.
“I used to think staying calm meant letting people hurt me,” she said.
“It doesn’t.”
“No.” She looked toward Lily.
