I came home early from a business trip to the smell of wagyu and truffles, only to find my nine-year-old daughter eating cold instant noodles alone on the pantry floor while my new wife entertained guests in the dining room.

The next year was the best year of my life.

Maya turned ten. We had a big birthday party in the backyard, with all her friends, a bounce house, and a cake shaped like a unicorn. Margaret made cookies, and Sunny ran around stealing hot dogs off the grill.

Maya laughed so hard her sides hurt. When she blew out the candles, she looked at me and smiled, her eyes bright.

I’d never seen her so happy.

Her therapist told us she was doing remarkably well. The nightmares were almost gone. She didn’t flinch anymore when someone reached for her. She was confident, outgoing, full of life.

She even started taking art classes. She loved to draw, filling sketchbook after sketchbook with pictures of our family, of Sunny, of flowers and rainbows.

“Daddy, look,” she said one night, showing me a drawing. It was the three of us—me, her, and Grandma—sitting on the porch, watching the sunset. Sarah was in the sky, an angel with wings, smiling down at them.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, my throat tight.

She nodded. “Grandma says Mommy is always watching us.”

I pulled her into a hug. “She is, baby. She is.”

I started volunteering at the local children’s shelter, helping kids who’d been through what Maya had. Margaret volunteered too, bringing them cookies and reading them stories. Maya even came with us sometimes, drawing pictures with the younger kids, telling them it was going to be okay.

“I know what it’s like to be scared,” she told a little boy one day, who’d been crying because he missed his mom. “But it gets better. I promise.”

I watched her, my chest full of pride.

She’d been through so much. She’d been hurt, abandoned, scared. But she’d come out the other side kind, gentle, brave.

She was the strongest person I knew.

One night, we were sitting on the porch, drinking lemonade, watching Sunny chase a butterfly around the yard.

“Daddy?” Maya said, leaning her head on my shoulder.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Are you ever going to get married again?”

I paused, surprised by the question. I hadn’t thought about dating, about remarrying, since Eleanor. All I’d cared about was Maya.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Maybe someday. But you’re the most important thing in my life. Nothing will ever change that.”

She nodded, quiet for a minute. “I wouldn’t mind. If you found someone nice. Someone who likes me.”

I kissed the top of her head. “Anyone I ever date is going to have to love you more than they love me. That’s the rule.”

She giggled. “Good.”

I looked out at the backyard, at the sun setting behind the trees, painting the sky pink and orange. Margaret was in the kitchen, washing dishes, singing an old song Sarah used to love. Sunny was lying on the grass, chewing on a stick.

For the first time since Sarah died, I felt at peace.