Chapter 16
Isabella stopped covering her wrists.
The marks faded.
The habit remained longer.
She still tugged sleeves downward before family dinners.
Then caught herself.
One evening she wore a sleeveless dress to a small dinner at my house.
Nobody mentioned it.
Good.
Noah noticed.
“Mommy, no sleeves.”
She smiled.
“No sleeves.”
He touched her wrist.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
He nodded.
Then handed her a paper flower.
New one.
Purple this time.
She laughed.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
He turned it over.
ISABELLA LOMBARDI.
My daughter froze.
Then cried.
Noah looked alarmed.
“Bad?”
“No.”
She pulled him close.
“Perfect.”
I looked away.
Some moments belong to the people who survived them.
The name Grant tried to remove had returned through a child’s handwriting.
May you like
Not as power.
As belonging.
