On Christmas morning, my nine-year-old tore open the gift from my father-in-law and screamed before the lid even hit the floor.

We spent the middle of January in a two-bedroom suite at the Extended Stay motel three miles from the hospital.

The rooms were sterile and quiet, smelling of industrial carpet cleaner and cheap lavendar air freshener. We had no furniture of our own—only three suitcases of new clothes we had bought at a department store, a plastic crate of Lily’s schoolbooks, and the medical equipment the hospital had sent home with her.

Lily sat on the edge of the double bed, a small plastic incentive spirometer held to her lips.

Breathe in. Hold for three seconds. Exhale slowly.

The yellow plastic ball inside the tube rose slowly, hovering near the eighteen-hundred-milliliter mark before dropping back to the bottom with a soft click.

"Good job, sweetie," I said, sitting beside her and rubbing her narrow back. "That’s two hundred higher than yesterday."

Lily set the plastic tube on the nightstand and pulled her knees up to her chest. Her face was pale, the angry red blisters on her cheeks having faded into faint, pink scars that the doctor said would eventually disappear over time. But her voice was still raspy, stripped of its usual bright, ringing tone.

"Mom?" she whispered, looking down at the white motel bedsheet.

"Yeah, bug?"

"Is Grandpa going to come to the new house in Idaho?"

My hands froze against her back. I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath before answering, keeping my voice as light and gentle as possible.

"No, honey," I said, leaning down to kiss the crown of her head. "Grandpa is going to stay in a special place for a very long time. He can't come to Idaho. He can't visit us anymore."

"Did he put the bad powder in my gift because he was mad at me?" she asked.

The question hit me like a physical punch. I pulled her into my arms, holding her so tightly I could feel the sharp ridge of her shoulder blades through her cotton shirt.

"No, Lily! No, oh my god, no," I choked out, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. "He was never mad at you. You didn't do anything wrong. Grandpa was... Grandpa was sick in his head. He made very bad choices, but none of it was your fault. Do you hear me? None of it."

She didn't answer. She rested her head against my collarbone, her small body quiet and heavy in my lap.

From the small kitchen area near the door, I heard the sound of a glass breaking.

I stood up quickly, setting Lily back on the bed, and walked around the corner into the kitchenette.

Mark was standing by the small counter, staring down at the sink. A heavy glass tumbler had shattered against the stainless steel basin, scattering jagged clear shards across the linoleum floor. His right hand was bleeding—a thin red line running from his palm down to his wrist—but he didn't seem to notice.

He was staring at a small brown medicine bottle sitting beside the faucet.

It was an over-the-counter cough syrup he had bought at the pharmacy an hour ago for his own lingering tickle in his throat.

"Mark?" I stepped closer, careful to avoid the broken glass on the floor. "Mark, you're bleeding."

"I can't open it," Mark whispered, his whole body trembling.

"What?"

"I bought it at the store," Mark said, his voice rising, sharp and hysterical. "The plastic seal was on it, Sarah. I checked it myself. But when I brought it in here... I thought... what if he had a key to the car while I was in the store? What if he had someone else helping him? What if it’s in this bottle too?"

"Mark, stop," I grabbed a kitchen towel and wrapped it tightly around his hand, pulling his bleeding palm away from the sink. "Gary is in jail. He’s in a solitary cell in the county facility. He didn't touch that bottle."

"We don't know that!" Mark shouted, pulling his hand away from me. "We didn't know what was behind our bedroom wall for six months, Sarah! We slept three feet away from it every night! We ate the food he brought us! How do I know he didn't put something in the car? How do I know he didn't pay someone to follow us here?"

"Mark, look at me!" I grabbed both sides of his jacket, forcing him to look down into my face. "You are letting him win. That is exactly what he wanted. He wanted you to feel helpless. He wanted you to believe that you couldn't protect us without him!"

Mark stared at me, his breath coming in short, harsh rasps. The blood from his hand was soaking through the white kitchen towel, turning the cotton a dark, bruised red.

"I can't protect you," he choked out, dropping his forehead against mine. "I let him into our house, Sarah. I helped him build the wall."

"We built that house together," I said, holding his face with my clean hand. "And we are going to leave it together. We leave for Idaho in two weeks. No more old walls. No more of his tools. Just us."