Chapter 26 - The Front Door
Four years after the assault, Noah was nearly five and a half.
The front door became his obsession.
Not because of trauma.
Because he could finally reach the upper deadbolt if he stood on his toes.
Dangerous.
I installed a childproof cover.
He declared:
“You ruin everything.”
Parenthood.
One Saturday, Amanda visited with Claire's parents.
The house filled with noise.
Shoes.
Coats.
Food.
Noah ran between rooms carrying a plastic dinosaur.
At one point, he stopped at the staircase.
Looked up.
Then shouted:
“Race!”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because stairs aren't a racetrack.”
“I fast.”
“You are also made of bones.”
He laughed.
Then climbed normally.
One hand on the rail.
At the top, he looked down at me.
No fear.
No symbol.
Just a child upstairs.
I realized I had stopped watching the staircase every time he approached it.
May you like
Recovery often announces itself by absence.
You notice the thing you forgot to fear.
