The school called. “Your daughter hasn’t been pick…

mattered.

Another year passed.

Then another.

On Lily’s fifth birthday, my apartment was a disaster of streamers, flour, frosting, and pink paper plates.

She was helping me decorate a boxed cake badly enough that more icing was on her face than on the actual cake.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Daniel Carver.

He still called sometimes.

Every few months.

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