Chapter 20
The years passed. Soft. Sweet.
Hope grew up. Fast.
She was 10 when she started her own lemonade stand. Donated all the money to Lily’s Shield. Raised $1,200 that summer. Said she was gonna build a new safe house with it.
She did. Two years later. We cut the ribbon on Hope’s House. A safe place for 12 kids who’d been abused. Full of art supplies. Books. Stuffed animals. A big playroom. A treehouse in the backyard.
Hope was there. 12 years old. Proud. Cut the ribbon with big scissors.
“Every kid deserves a safe house,” she said. To the crowd of reporters and supporters. “Just like my grandma and grandpa built for my mom. And just like my mom built for me. Now we get to build it for them.”
We cheered. Cried. So proud.
Lily was 35 when she won a national award for her work. Child Advocate of the Year. The president gave it to her at the White House.
We went with her. Dressed up. Walked the red carpet.
When Lily accepted the award, she talked about us. About Hope. About all the kids who’d been hurt. About all the kids we’d saved.
“Hope is not a feeling,” she said. “It’s a choice. A choice we make every single day. To love. To fight. To never give up. My parents chose hope for me. I chose it for my daughter. And together, we choose it for every child who needs us. Thank you.”
The whole room stood up. Clapped. Cheered.
I was so proud I could burst.
That night, we had dinner at a fancy restaurant in Washington DC. Hope wore a sparkly dress. Ate lobster for the first time. Said it tasted like “sweet rubber”. We laughed.
On the plane ride home, Hope sat next to me. Drew in her sketchbook.
“Grandma?” she said.
“Yeah, bug?” I said.
“Did you ever think you’d be here?” she said. “On a plane. With the president. All of us happy?”
I thought about it. For a second. Thought about the night Lily was taken. The empty bed. The note. The fear.
“No, baby,” I said. Honest. “There were days I thought we’d never be happy again. Days I thought I’d never smile again. But your grandma and grandpa… we held on. We fought. And we had your mom. And then we had you. And it was all worth it. Every single hard day.”
Hope nodded. Serious.
“I’m gonna fight too,” she said. “When I grow up. I’m gonna be just like Mom. Just like you and Grandpa.”
I kissed the top of her head.
“I know you will, baby,” I said. “I know.”
Daniel was 60 when he retired from construction.
He spent his days building things. Treehouses for the safe houses. Swing sets. Bookshelves. Toys for the kids.
He taught Hope to build. She was good. Just like him. They spent every weekend in the garage. Hammering. Sawing. Building. Laughing.
He still coached soccer. First Hope’s team. Then the kids at the safe houses. Wore his lucky LILY #7 shirt to every game. Even though Lily was 40 now. Even though Hope was 15 and wore #12.
He was happy. So happy.
We traveled. A lot.
Went to Europe. Saw the Eiffel Tower. The Colosseum. The Northern Lights.
Went to Hawaii. Laid on the beach. Drank mai tais. Watched the sun set over the ocean.
Went to Africa. Went on safari. Saw lions. Elephants. Giraffes. Lily cried when she saw the giraffes. Just like she had at the zoo when she was 7.
Everywhere we went, we found the courage star. Every night. No matter where in the world we were. It was always there. Bright. Shining.
A reminder.
May you like
We were together. We were safe. We were loved.
And nothing could ever take that away.
