My five-year-old daughter always took baths with my husband. Every night, they stayed in the bathroom for over an hour

Rebuilding a life after trauma doesn't happen overnight; it happens in small, quiet increments of trust.

Over the next six months, Sarah and I sold our respective homes and pooled our resources to purchase a bright, airy craftsman-style house on the edge of a quiet neighborhood three towns over. It had a wraparound porch, a big backyard with a tire swing hanging from an old oak tree, and—most importantly—a big, deep bathtub where Lily could take long, warm bubble baths without ever having to look at a kitchen timer again.

We also enrolled Lily in bi-weekly sessions with a pediatric play therapist named Dr. Hayes—a wonderfully warm woman with a gentle voice and a room full of kinetic sand, art supplies, and therapeutic stuffed animals.

In the beginning, Lily refused to go anywhere near the bathroom sink or even wash her face with a wet washcloth without freezing up. The echoes of the past still lingered in her little nervous system, ready to trigger fight-or-flight responses at the slightest aquatic stimulus.

But healing is a patient gardener.

I sat in on every therapy session during the first two months. I watched as Dr. Hayes used storytelling and play to help Lily externalize her fears, drawing pictures of the "water monster" and then ripping the papers into tiny pieces and throwing them into the recycling bin.

“Your body remembers to protect you, Lily,” Dr. Hayes told her softly one afternoon, handing her a box of crayons. “That’s your superpower. But you don't have to be afraid anymore. Your mom and I are the guards at the castle gates. Nothing gets past us.”

One Saturday morning, about eight months after Mark’s arrest, I was in the kitchen chopping strawberries when I heard splashing coming from the upstairs bathroom.

My heart seized. For a fraction of a second, the phantom sound of a digital timer ticked in my ears. I dropped the knife on the cutting board and ran up the stairs, my breath catching in my throat as I threw open the bathroom door.

Lily was sitting in the tub, water splashing everywhere, her hair piled high in a soapy mohawk that looked like a crown. She wasn't holding onto the edge with white knuckles. She was floating on her back, her arms spread wide like wings, laughing hysterically as she blew bubbles across the surface of the warm water.

“Mommy! Look!” she beamed, splashing water toward me with a joyous grin. “I’m a floating star!”

I gripped the doorframe, my knees suddenly weak, and let out a sob of pure, unadulterated relief. I walked over, knelt beside the tub, and scooped up a handful of warm water, pouring it gently over her shoulders.

“You’re the brightest star in the sky, baby,” I whispered, kissing her soapy forehead.

She threw her arms around my neck, drenching the front of my shirt, and whispered into my ear the words that healed every remaining fracture in my soul: