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

“Maybe so,” I finally said. “

But you don’t have to force yourself quickly.

Things come back when they feel safe.”

She nodded with a seriousness beyond her years.

Then she rested her head on my shoulder and said something that still wakes me up sometimes:

—I thought you didn’t see because you didn’t want to.

I didn’t defend myself.

I didn’t explain broken adults, manipulation, fear, shame, denial.

It was true in the way that mattered: it took me a while to see.

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “

I should have listened to you sooner, even when you didn’t know how to explain it.

Now I see you.

I won’t look away again.”

The legal proceedings progressed far enough for the lawyers to begin exploring settlements, expert opinions, versions of events, and potential loopholes.

Mark maintained his absolute innocence.

His strategy was painfully predictable.

He presented scattered medical records, tried to justify the substances as supplements, and suggested that my memories had been tainted by panic.

She also wanted to paint a portrait of me that would be useful in her defense: exhausted mother, resentful wife, impressionable woman.

It was an old story.

It works far too often.

My lawyer warned me that the road would be long and that we might never achieve perfect justice.

I appreciated her honesty more than any false hope.

Because that was the other impossible choice: to continue to the end even though the system did not guarantee redemption, or to retreat to avoid wear and tear and further exposure.

Several people advised me to “think about Sophie’s future,” as if reporting the abuse wasn’t precisely that.

But I realized that everyone was using “future” to refer to different things.

They talked about school, rumors, family name, apparent stability.

I talked about how one day my daughter might remember that when she fea