The following morning, Aria and Shaun met me at the river bridge where I had tied a ribbon every year in their memory. I removed it because I no longer needed to mourn children who were standing beside me, even though none of us could recover the years we had lost. Back at the house, Aria touched the crooked stitches in the mattress and said she had spent her life believing a frightened child’s decision had destroyed our family. I reminded her that children do not carry responsibility for the choices adults build around their fear. Shaun found the unfinished dollhouse near the window, and when I reached for a screwdriver to repair its crooked door, they both asked me to leave it until we could work on it together. Reconciliation did not erase anger, regret, or grief, but it gave us a place to begin without pretending the past had been simpler than it was. After forty years of searching alone, I finally understood that rebuilding a family was not another task I had to complete by myself.