The following weeks were hell, but a necessary hell. Lily had to undergo two skin graft surgeries. The dressing changes were agonizing; her cries of pain pierced my memory, reminding me every day of my failure as her protector. But I didn’t leave her side. I resigned from my position as director. My bosses told me I was crazy, that I was throwing my career away. “I have a more important job,” I told them as I packed my things.
I sold the big house. It held too many memories, too many dark corners where Lily had suffered. We moved to a small, bright apartment near a park.
The physical recovery was slow, but the emotional one was much more complex. During the first month at home, Lily hid food. I would find cookies in her shoes, pieces of sandwiches in her dresser drawers, apples under her pillow. Every time I found hidden food, I didn’t scold her. I simply hugged her and said, “There will always be more. It will never run out.”
One night, I woke up at 3 a.m. to a noise in the kitchen. I tiptoed over and saw Lily. She was standing in front of the open refrigerator, bathed in artificial light. Her hands, still scarred and red, were clutching a carton of milk. She was trembling. When she saw me, she dropped the carton. The milk spilled all over the floor. Lily immediately cowered, covering her head with her hands, bracing for the impact. Bracing for the scream. Bracing for the boiling water. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll clean it up!” she screamed hysterically.
My heart shattered into a thousand pieces again. I knelt in the puddle of milk, not caring that my pajamas were getting soaked. “Lily, look at me. Look at me.” She looked up, terrified. “It’s just milk,” I said gently. “It’s just spilled milk, my love. It’s okay. We can buy more. We can buy all the milk in the world.”
I grabbed a rag and started cleaning up, playing, making shapes with the spilled milk. “Look, this looks like a rabbit.” Gradually, her breathing calmed. She lowered her hands. And then, she did something she hadn’t done in two years. She laughed. It was a small, rusty laugh, but it was the most beautiful sound in the world. She knelt with me in the puddle of milk and helped me clean it up.
Amanda’s trial was swift. The photos of Lily’s hands were irrefutable proof. She was sentenced to 15 years in prison. I didn’t even go to hear the sentencing. She didn’t matter anymore. She was a ghost.