“No.

No.

I’m the one who’s sorry.

I’m so sorry, Emmy.” Noah ran to his mother and buried himself against her, and she wrapped her good arm around him, her son, the three-year-old she had trusted with the truth when she couldn’t trust her own father with it.

And then she reached over and handed me her phone, and showed me the rest — because the video had not been all of it.

There were emails.