Victoria was throwing a frightened woman and her little girl out of the house when Ethan suddenly walked in.

Life goes on.

Slowly, the pain of the past starts to fade. It never goes away completely—how could it?—but it becomes easier to bear. It becomes a part of who we are, not something that defines us.

Lily turns eight, and we throw her a big birthday party with all her friends from school. She's thriving now, happy and confident, surrounded by people who love her. She still talks about Victoria sometimes, but the sadness in her eyes has been replaced by a gentle acceptance.

"Victoria made bad choices," she told me once, matter-of-factly. "But she loved me. And I love her too. That's okay, right?"

"Yes, baby," I said, hugging her. "That's more than okay."

I graduate from college with honors, and I get a job at a local elementary school as a counselor. Working with children who have been through trauma is hard, but it's also the most rewarding thing I've ever done. I know what it's like to feel lost and alone. And if I can help even one child feel seen and loved, then all my pain was worth it.

Ethan and I get married a year after Victoria's sentencing.

It's a small ceremony, just family and close friends. Lily is our flower girl, and she looks beautiful in her white dress, scattering rose petals down the aisle.

When I walk down the aisle, Ethan's eyes fill with tears.

"You look beautiful," he whispers when I reach him.

"So do you," I whisper back, smiling through my own tears.

We say our vows, promising to love each other, to support each other, to never let anything come between us again.

When the priest says, "You may kiss the bride," Ethan pulls me close, and the kiss is everything—sweet, passionate, full of all the love and pain and hope of the last eight years.

Lily cheers, and our friends and family clap, and for the first time in my life, I feel truly, completely happy.

We buy a new house a few months later—bigger, brighter, with a big backyard for Lily to play in. It's not too far from Ethan's old house, but it's far enough that it feels like a fresh start.

We paint the walls bright colors. We plant a garden in the backyard. We fill the house with laughter and love and the sound of Lily's voice as she runs from room to room.

It's everything I ever dreamed of.

And then, two years after our wedding, something wonderful happens.

I'm pregnant.

We find out on a Tuesday morning, and we spend the whole day crying and laughing and hugging each other. Lily is thrilled—she's been asking for a brother or sister for months.

"Can I name her?" she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.

"Her?" Ethan says, laughing. "How do you know it's a girl?"

Lily just shrugs, like it's obvious. "It's a girl. I can feel it."

And she's right.

Eight months later, we welcome our second daughter into the world.

We name her Grace.

She's perfect—tiny, with Ethan's nose and my eyes, just like her big sister. Lily holds her for the first time, and her face lights up with a love so pure it makes my heart ache.

"She's beautiful," Lily whispers, kissing Grace's forehead. "I'm going to be the best big sister ever."

I look at Ethan, holding our new baby, our older daughter standing beside us, and I feel my heart swell with love and gratitude.

We've been through so much. So much pain. So much loss. So much fear.

But we made it.