But the little yellow house was still visible.
I remembered sitting beside my first wife while Sophia colored the roof purple because she insisted yellow houses should have purple roofs.
I smiled through tears.
"Your mom loved this one."
Sophia looked up.
"She did?"
I nodded.
"She hung it on the refrigerator for weeks."
My daughter smiled.
Then she asked something that broke my heart.
"Can we remember her in this house again?"
I stared at her.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I knelt and held her carefully.
"Yes, sweetheart."
My voice trembled.
"We can."
That evening, we ate dinner at home.
Nothing elaborate.
Just pasta, vegetables, and garlic bread.
Sophia helped carry napkins to the table, but when she reached for the dishes, I noticed her becoming tense.
I looked toward her.
"Would you like to help?"
She nodded.
"Okay."
I smiled.
"Then you can put the forks out."
She stared.
"Just the forks?"
"Just the forks."
She hesitated.
"What about the dishes?"
"I'll take care of them after we eat."
Sophia looked confused.
I realized she was trying to understand the new rules.
So I explained.
"Everybody in a family can help with age-appropriate chores. But you don't have to earn food, rest, or kindness by doing them."
She listened carefully.
Then she asked, "What if I spill something?"
I smiled gently.
"We clean it up."
"Will you be mad?"
"Accidents happen."
She looked down.
Then she whispered, "Patricia says mistakes show people don't care."
I took a breath.
"Sometimes mistakes simply mean we're human."
Sophia considered that.
Then she placed the forks on the table.
After dinner, she accidentally dropped one onto the floor.
The sound made her flinch.
She froze.
I looked toward her.
Then I bent down, picked up the fork, and placed it in the sink.
"We'll get a clean one."
Sophia stared.
"That's it?"
I smiled.
"That's it."
For a long moment, she didn't move.
Then she began crying.
I knelt beside her.
"Sweetheart?"
She looked at the floor.
"I thought you'd be mad."
I held out my arms.
She stepped into them.
For several minutes, I simply held her while she cried.
It wasn't the kind of moment anyone would consider dramatic.
There was no shouting.
No confrontation.
No secret being uncovered.
Just a child discovering that dropping a fork didn't have to make her afraid.
And in that moment, I understood how much work we still had to do.
Sophia began counseling the following week.