I watch River wobbling through the living room of our cottage and placing all his toys on the couch. Everything is out here as he tries to decide how to pack all of them into his little backpack. He’s adorable and it breaks my heart to tell him that he can’t take all of them. I know I’m going soft on him, but I am terrified of the trauma he’s been through. How is a child -even when he’s just two years old- supposed to forget about that kind of violence?
“What are you thinking about?” Nate wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on top of my head.
“River,” I tell him and curl my fingers around his, “he’s trying to take all his stuff, and I can’t say no to him. I’m not sure whether that makes me a very lousy mother or just a scared one.”
He turns me around to face him with a de
