The voice of Lily, my eight-year-old daughter, shattered the quiet. I turned, forcing a smile onto my face as I descended the stairs. Lily was holding a solar system model, her face smudged with marker, eyes bright with the fierce intelligence that always startled me.

“It’s beautiful, honey,” I said, tracing the red spot on the cardboard planet. “You captured every detail.”

“Do you think Dad will like it?” she asked, her enthusiasm dimming slightly. “Will he be home tonight?”

My chest tightened. That was the question lately, wasn’t it? Michael was a ghost in his own home. A medical sales manager, he had always been busy, but lately, his absence felt different. It wasn’t just physical; it was an emotional vacancy. When he was home, he looked through me, not at me.

“He has a client dinner, sweetie,” I lied, or perhaps repeated a lie I had been told. “But tomorrow. We’ll show him tomorrow.”