We sat together then, awkward, quiet, and trembling, as the pieces rearranged themselves to form a new picture. There was no predator to fight or protect our daughter from, only the unsteady truth of bloodlines and identity. Relief tangled with grief, but beneath it all was love, bruised but intact, waiting for forgiveness to settle.
Later that night, back home, Martin and I sat in silence as the clock ticked. For the first time in months, there were no shadows of suspicion, only the fragile light of truth. Our daughter had not been stolen. She had been searching. And at last, she had let us in on her answers.