My four-year-old daughter started hiding her night-light like it was something shameful before every visit to her father’s house. When I asked why, Maisy pressed the little silicone moon to her chest and whispered, “Miss Felicity says if I turn it on, Daddy will know I’m still a baby.” I did not gasp. I did not cry. I did not call my husband. I only knelt in front of her and asked, very carefully, “Does Daddy say that too?”

That evening, after Reid had said his quiet goodbyes and headed home, the house settled into the soft, warm twilight of a midsummer night.

The windows were open slightly, letting in a cool breeze carrying the scent of blooming jasmine from the garden.

I sat on the edge of Maisy’s bed as she tucked her stuffed animals into her duvet.

On her nightstand sat her little silicone moon—its warm, golden glow casting soft, soothing shadows across the buttery yellow walls of her bedroom.

Beside it sat her smartwatch, resting on its magnetic charger, its small screen displaying a steady, peaceful heart rate of 72 beats per minute.

"Mommy?" Maisy whispered, holding her plush rabbit against her chest.

"Yes, my sweet girl?"

"Is Miss Felicity ever coming back?"

I reached out, smoothing her dark curls back from her forehead, looking into her clear, trusting gray eyes.

"No, sweetheart," I said gently, my voice filled with absolute certainty. "She’s never coming back. And nobody is ever going to tell you that you can't have your light."

Maisy let out a long, happy sigh, her eyelids growing heavy as the soft warmth of the room enveloped her.

"I like the light, Mommy," she murmured, her voice drifting into sleep. "It makes the shadows go away."

"I know, baby," I whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her cheek. "I like the light too."

I stood up slowly and walked to the doorway. I looked back one last time at my sleeping daughter—safe, whole, loved, and protected by a mother who had fought through the dark to bring her home.