I look at my daughter. She is tall and beautiful now and uses words that make her sound older than she is.

She is up late writing. She loves to write. She struggles with things she shouldn’t–when she gets hurt she apologizes.

I am sorry, Mom, I am sorry.

She says even as I try to comfort her and reassure her–getting injured is not your fault. I am so sorry you got hurt.

I blame her abuser. He taught her that she could not trust her instinct. He was wrong.

But others were wrong too. They told her to hide. They told her she was not worth the trouble. They did not defend her.

I did. I did because it was the least I could do.. She is my daughter–more precious to me than my own life.

I knew how to fight for her because of love.

Love fights for the children.

Then he builds a wall around us with his own pain.

And never lets us go.