“Daddy, did we used to live here?”
An innocent question asked some distance between a park and an ice cream shop. Maybe it was the butterfly that drew her attention.
An echo of shame bubbles to the surface. Memories of having to run for refuge during evictions from various homes, or the power being turned off in the Florida summer when the bill money got misspent on inebriation. Excuses made to hide the slinking back here after a night drinking. No rent money, but enough for a buzz.
“No, baby. We never lived here.”
Can’t really call it living anyway. 
If I may be so bold — does she know about your sobriety?
Also, glad to see you’re back.
Sorry to take so long to respond to this.
She knows I used to drink, she knows I don’t anymore. I am still not sure if she understands, or if she wants to. I don’t know how to explain it properly to her in any case.