Others were a little odd, but not unreasonable: no visitors, no social outings, no phone calls to friends in Chicago.

Granted, some of his rules were overreaching. I wasn’t a child; rather, a grown woman, who had experienced more life lessons than most women twice my age.

It was the last rule that really bothered me: no alone time with Gemma.

At least not until we’ve developed some trust, my uncle had said.

In that moment, I had wanted to charge up those stairs, toss my daughter over my shoulder and run all the way home to Chicago. Who were these people to tell me what to do? To insist on controlling my current relationship with my own daughter—the daughter I grew in my womb and raised for the first six years of her life?

But I’d taken a deep breath and imagined myself floating on my back down the river … the way one of my counselors at rehab taught me. If I had to play by their rules for a little while, so be it.

I wasn’t innocent in all this; I’d lost custody for a good reason. But now I’m sober and taking my mental health meds as prescribed … what more do they want?

It wasn’t until dinner time that I saw my daughter. Feigning patience, I’d offered to help Aunt Sara in the kitchen. While she boiled potatoes and stirred stew, I peeled cucumbers for the salad.

I froze, paring knife mid-air as the tinkling sounds of children’s laughter and small feet rocketing down the stairs filled the house. Finally.

I set the knife down, rubbing my hands on my sides, and followed the happy sounds. But as soon as I turned the corner, I came face to face with Uncle Francis. He blocked my path and turned to the girls. After his “rules” proclamation earlier, he was the last person I wanted standing between me and my daughter.

Francis boomed, “What did I say about running, ladies?”

“Sorry, Uncle Francis,” the girls sang in unison.

I stepped around the hulking man to look at my daughter. Smiling, I tried to hide my surprise at the changes in her appearance. Gemma was wearing a collared white dress, stiff with starch. Vastly different from the superhero tank tops and stretchy shorts she wore at home. And her hair … It was shorter. Much shorter. Those bastards cut my baby’s hair.

Gemma’s face broke into a silly grin and as soon as she came toward me, I was on my knees, reaching for my little girl. “Oh, angel. I missed you so much.” I held her head to my chest, stroking her newly cut brown locks. How many times had I dreamed of this moment in rehab? To smell her milky-girl skin, touch the too-soft ringlets of hair…