A year later, my husband sent me a candid photograph of Eliza laughing at the kitchen table with her hair tucked behind her ear. Once, she would have demanded that picture be deleted before anyone else could see it. This time, when she noticed it, she barely reacted. Her birthmark had not faded; the world around it had simply lost some of its power. I still think about the thirty seconds when Theo stood up, because that was the moment the direction of the room changed—but it was Eliza who took the microphone back. The courage had been hers long before anyone applauded it. Sometimes the person who steps forward does not give someone strength; they simply create enough room for the strength already there to become visible.