If she made a mistake, I needed to show her that the response would be appropriate rather than frightening.
And if I had to be away for work, I needed to explain what would happen and make sure she knew who would care for her.
Those changes weren't dramatic.
They didn't produce a single moment when everything became perfect.
But gradually, I began noticing differences.
My daughter stopped hiding food in her pockets.
She began asking questions during meals.
She laughed more freely when something was funny.
And one evening, she interrupted a conversation to tell me about a picture she'd drawn at preschool.
Then she stopped herself.
Her eyes widened.
"Sorry."
I looked toward her.
"For what?"
She stared.
"I interrupted."
I smiled gently.
"Sometimes we need to wait our turn when somebody else is talking. But you don't have to be afraid to speak."
She thought about that.
Then she lifted the picture again.
"Can I show you?"
I smiled.
"Absolutely."
She held up a drawing of a large yellow sun above a little purple house.
Two people stood beside the front door.
One tall.
One small.
I looked at it.
"Who's that?"
She pointed toward the tall figure.
"You."
Then she pointed toward the little one.
"Me."
I smiled.
"What are we doing?"
She looked proud.
"Eating dinner."
My throat tightened.
I examined the drawing more carefully.
There was a small table between the figures.
And on it were two plates.
Both full.
I looked toward my daughter.
She smiled.
"Everybody gets dinner."
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I hugged her.
And I realized how much healing could be contained in something as simple as a child's drawing of a table with enough food for everyone.
My mother's next visit brought something I hadn't seen in years.
She arrived on a Sunday afternoon carrying a small storage box with a faded blue ribbon tied around the lid.
I recognized it immediately.
It belonged to my first wife.
After her death, I'd asked my mother to keep several personal belongings I couldn't bear to sort through. There were photographs, notebooks, birthday cards, and digital recordings from the years when our daughter was a baby.
My mother placed the box on the kitchen table.
"I think it's time."
I looked toward her.
"Time for what?"
She touched the lid.