I watched the scarf lengthen across her lap, one stitch at a time.
My childhood ended the day I opened the basement door.
For a long time, I thought that was the only thing the day had taken from me.
But it also gave something back.
It gave Grandma her name after years of being called confused.
It gave me the truth after years of rehearsed lies.
And it taught both of us that love does not outlive hate by pretending hate never happened.
Love outlives it by opening the locked door, carrying someone into the light, and refusing to let anyone close it again.
