“So do I.”
She put the chalk back in the box and reached for my hand.
There was no dramatic victory in that moment.
No audience.
No one turning pale.
Just my daughter standing beside me on safe ground, holding my fingers with a hand dusted yellow.
That was enough.
For the first time in my life, I understood that restored dignity did not sound like winning an argument.
Sometimes it sounded like refusing to let anyone rename what happened.
Sometimes it looked like keeping the evidence.
And sometimes it was simply a six-year-old finishing the yellow stripe herself.
