3On Christmas Day, I left my eight-year-old daughter at my parents’ front door, holding her three-year-old sister’s mitten-covered hand, so I could return to my husband’s emergency surgery. Before the night was over, a different hospital called to tell me both girls had been discovered outside in the bitter, freezing darkness.

Spring arrived in Chicago with an explosion of bright green grass, blooming tulips, and warm morning sunlight that poured through the large bay windows of our craftsman home.

It was a Saturday morning in late April.

In the backyard, eight-year-old Maisie was running across the lawn, chasing a yellow butterfly with a pink net, while three-year-old Ruby sat on the grass, weaving dandelions into a clumsy, beautiful crown.

I stood on our back porch, holding a steaming mug of coffee, watching them laugh and play without a single shadow hanging over their heads.

The trial was scheduled to begin in three weeks, but the outcome was already a foregone conclusion. The digital evidence, the forensic paint samples, the neighbor's 4K video, and my mother's own unrepentant confession in the interrogation room ensured that they would spend the remainder of their golden years behind gray concrete walls.

The house on Maplewood Avenue had already been seized by the state to cover mounting legal fees and court-ordered restitution to our family. The pristine white front door was now painted over in a dark, weathered charcoal gray by new owners who knew nothing of the malice that had once lurked behind it.

David stepped out onto the porch behind me, wrapping his arms gently around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he whispered softly, kissing my cheek.

I smiled, taking a sip of my coffee as I watched Maisie catch the butterfly, cheering triumphantly as it fluttered away toward the open sky.

“Just thinking about how lucky we are,” I said, leaning back into his embrace. “The winter is finally over.”