I slipped out of her room and into the kitchen, the linoleum cold against my bare feet. I sat at the island, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the world. I pulled a notebook from the junk drawer—a spiral-bound thing usually reserved for grocery lists.

I uncapped a pen. My hand hovered over the paper.

What happened?

I didn’t know the specifics of today yet. But I knew the history. And for the first time in my life, I stopped lying to myself about it.

I started writing.

Christmas, 2021. Lily crying because Emma’s sons ripped the roof off her dollhouse. Mother saying, “Stop being so dramatic, Lily, boys will be boys.”

Thanksgiving, 2022. Emma making fun of Lily’s stutter. The table laughing. Me laughing nervously, trying to diffuse the tension.