He splashed water on her.
Marissa screamed and chased him out of the bathroom.
My old instinct returned immediately.
Observe.
Protect.
Make sure he was okay.
I was about to go back in.
Then I remembered Henry’s words.
So I closed the door silently.
For almost thirty years, I had believed that loving my daughter meant protecting her the way the world looked at her.
That night I finally understood something else.
Sometimes loving her meant trusting that she no longer needed me to look first.
