“The old one is safe.”

“She might like two.”

“She might.”

The little girl began folding.

Halfway through, the paper tore.

Her eyes filled.

“If I don’t do it, she’ll think.”

Julian sat beside her.

“Think what?”

“That I didn’t want her.”

He put his hands on his own knees.

“Anna knows you care.”

Maisie stared at the torn paper.

“She went.”

“Yes.”

The answer hurt both of them.

“She needed to leave the house after what happened.”

“Because I didn’t tell before?”

“No.”

“Because I did tell?”

“No.”

Julian stayed quiet until she looked at him.

“You are not responsible for making Anna stay by giving her presents.”

Maisie’s face crumpled.

He held out his arms.

She came into them.

They sat beside the unfinished bird.

Later, she chose to send a drawing instead.

Not an apology.

A picture of a garden with a badly proportioned rabbit.

Anna called to thank her.

She described the rabbit.

Asked whether it had a name.

The conversation became ordinary for several minutes.

That was better than praising the gift as proof of love.

Maisie could create something without making it a payment.

Julian learned his daughter’s routines in the spaces Anna left.

Not because she had kept them secret.

Because he had relied on them working.

The right brush.

The bedtime sequence.

The reason she wanted the curtains closed before the lamp was turned off.

He knew some things.

Not enough.

A familiar temporary caregiver helped during his working hours.

He took responsibility for mornings and evenings.

The first school morning was a disaster.

A missing shoe.

Toast dropped on the floor.