Abigail adjusted too, but more slowly.
For a while she asked me before every drive who would be bringing her home.
She wanted exact names.
Exact times.
She kept snacks in her backpack and became anxious whenever her stomach felt strange in the car.
So we built new routines.
I told her the plan before we left.
I told her where we were going.
And whenever she asked, “You’ll stay with me, right?” I answered without teasing her or telling her she worried too much.
“Yes.”
Months later, I found the purple backpack in the hall with one strap twisted underneath it.
For the first time since that day, she had dropped it there and walked away without looking back.
That small thing hit me harder than I expected.
On the highway, she had held that backpack like it was the only thing she could trust.
At home, eventually, she no longer needed to.
