My five-year-old daughter always bathed with my husband.

She asked me why the doubt of others still held so much authority over my own perception of danger.

I thought about my mother, the church, the neighborhood, the years of marriage.

I thought about how often calling a woman an exaggerator is just another way of silencing her.

Sophie began to regain small gestures.

She started asking for stories again.

She started singing half-heartedly in the car again.

She even started protesting about eating vegetables again.

But water was still a minefield.

She didn’t want bathtubs.

She didn’t want closed doors.

She didn’t want anyone measuring time near her.

So I bathed her for months with a plastic pitcher, sitting beside her, letting her decide every step.

It seemed minimal.

It was a complete reconstruction.

One night he asked me if he could ever like water again.

I didn’t know what to answer without promising too much.