Because I kept replaying every swimming trip, every bedtime story, every moment I had smiled from the hallway believing my daughters had finally found a safe father figure.
For months, I blamed myself.
Sophie’s therapist eventually told me something I desperately needed to understand: what mattered now was that when the signs finally became clear, I believed my daughters and acted.
Recovery wasn’t immediate.
Sophie stopped locking her bedroom door eventually, but only after we replaced every lock in the house.
Mia returned to swimming almost a year later.
The first time she went back into a pool, I sat in the front row of chairs where she could see me the entire time.
She swam one length, turned around, and smiled.
I cried.
Not because everything was suddenly fixed.
But because she was beginning to reclaim something Thomas had made her afraid of.
I used to believe I knew what dangerous men looked like because I had survived Michael.
