“Grandma puts me in the freezer when I spill my juice,” my 7-year-old daughter sobbed in my arms. As I carried her to my heated truck, she gestured to a second, padlocked freezer hidden under my old boxes. “Don’t touch that one,” she whispered. “That’s where Grandpa went eight years ago…”

the last six months in play therapy, slowly unlearning the fear that had once ruled her tiny world.

She looked up, her dark eyes sparkling as she saw me. “Daddy! Look!”

She held up a drawing. It showed a big, bright yellow house surrounded by giant green trees, with a bright orange sun filling the top of the page. In the center stood two figures holding continue reading …