My five-year-old daughter always bathed with my husband. They would stay in there for more than an hour every night.

The months leading up to the trial were the darkest of my life. True to Eleanor’s warning, the defense launched a vicious smear campaign. Leaked stories appeared online questioning my mental stability. I lost my job as a graphic designer because my employer couldn't handle the media circus surrounding my family.

We had to sell the house to fund my legal fees and relocate to a small, hidden apartment on the other side of the city under my maiden name, Clara Brooks.

But amidst the ruin, Lily began to heal. Without the nightly poisoning, the color returned to her cheeks. Her soft curls regained their luster. We started seeing a wonderful trauma therapist named Dr. Aris, who specialized in children who had survived severe betrayal by caregivers.

One evening, while we were baking cookies—a new routine we established to replace the horror of the old ones—Lily looked up at me, her hands covered in flour.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Is Daddy ever coming back?"

My heart stopped for a beat. I knelt down to her eye level. "No, Lily. He isn't. You are completely safe with me. I promise."

Lily was quiet for a moment, stirring the chocolate chips. "I’m glad."

"You are?"

"Mm-hmm," she nodded softly. "Because when I was in the bath, my legs felt like they were sleeping forever. And Daddy told me that if I woke them up, the monsters would come into my room. I was always scared to wake up."

I pulled her into a tight embrace, burying my face in her hair so she wouldn't see my tears. The sheer cruelty of what he had done to her mind was agonizing. He hadn't just poisoned her body; he had locked her inside a prison of fear, making her believe that her own physical suffering was the only thing keeping her safe.