I went into autopilot. I made her favorite dinner—macaroni and cheese with the expensive sharp cheddar she loved, and sliced Honeycrisp apples on the side. I plated it on her favorite dinosaur plate.

“Here you go, Lils,” I said, forcing a brightness into my voice that I didn’t feel.

She ate slowly. Methodically. Mechanically. There was no joy in the chewing, no humming, no swinging of legs under the table. She ate as if she were fueling a machine.

That night, the darkness of her bedroom felt oppressive. I lay beside her, listening to the rhythm of her breathing, waiting for the hitch that would signal a nightmare. I stroked her hair, smelling the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo, masked by the lingering, cloying perfume of my mother’s house.

Eventually, her breathing evened out. She slept.

I could not.