f-finished finger painting on the small easel in the corner. The pink sparkly snea

in her preschool play, a single line as the third flower from the left. She had

er sho

arching for the one person who wasn' t there. She just wanted her dad. She wanted her dad to see

that David, despite his ambition and his long hours at the firm, still put his famil

t, after the play, my voic

, his tone dismissive, impatient. "I had a critical c

t was alway

rced its way to the surface. It was a sunny afternoon. We were leaving the park. Lily

efore. I let go so she co

ommy! So

re her l

reamed her name. There was a sickening thud. A sound th

g in my ears. I knelt on the asphalt, gathering her b

my fingers slick and s

cem

s been an accident! Oh Go

again.

in. And

sat in a sterile, white room, holding my daughter's cold hand, and I kept calling my

air perfectly in place, his suit immaculate. He didn't look at me.

e not, "How is she?

"Is there going to be

y mind unable to p

eting," he offered, a p

e, slipped me a note. It was a copy of a restaurant receipt. For two people. From that afternoon.

er side of town. The meeting

over me. The betrayal was so deep, so absolute, it felt like it had hollowed out my bones. The

roat was tight, my chest constricted. I was drowning in t