The following days roll into weeks, then months, and we all settle into our new normal. Evelien attends school, where she’s made a good friend—a Dutch girl whose parents immigrated just before the war—and at home, she’s learning to sew from Mrs. Jansen. I do my best not to chime in, even while I sit nearby sewing garments I take in to earn money for the family. Then after her homework most evenings, Evelien sits with her grandpapa, trading his lessons in Gronings for the latest trick she’s mastering.

Which is what I presume they’re doing just now. As I finish with dishes, bursts of laughter draw me to peek into the sitting room. Sure enough, Evelien’s and her grandpapa’s hands are all tangled up in string. Their joyful sounds radiate through the home, stretching my lips into a smile. And suddenly I think of Dirk and Klara.

I recall the madness I found in their hopes to start a family amid this ghastly war, and finally I understand. Evelien’s not just a light in the darkness; she’s a light that makes the darkness endurable. Even, quite often, surmountable.

***

Late that night, when Evelien wakes from a frightening dream—as we still do at times—by her request, I spin a story of a brave princess who defeats a dragon that for too long reigned over a village. As she listens, her eyelids grow progressively heavy. Once she’s fallen asleep, I slip out of bed for a glass of water.

In the hall, I close the door behind me, and a soft creak from the kitchen turns me. For an instant, the past takes hold, and I expect to see Arie at the table, studying by lamplight.

But the noise was just the house settling. And once more the reality of his absence pummels me in the chest.

It’s a trade-off of living back in this home. How some days I feel I could round a corner and find Arie there. That any second he’ll come through the door, ready to sweep me off to a film we’d seen dozens of times together. Or I’ll turn from the kitchen sink and he’ll be boasting a smirk, egging on a sudsy battle.

That’s not to say triggers of grief are confined by these walls. Practically every shop and street in the vicinity holds a memory, never mind a stranger’s whistling of a tune or the passing scent of butterscotch. Sometimes the angst is so smothering I fear I might suffocate.

Then it wanes and I push myself forward, because with Evelien to care for, I don’t have the luxury of wallowing for long. And thank heavens for that.