Sometimes I said the wrong thing.

Once I told Rose she was “such a little Hannah,” and she frowned fiercely.

“I’m Rose,” she said.

“You’re right.

I’m sorry.”

Another time I became impatient when Elias took ten minutes to put on his shoes.

I heard my father’s clipped tone in my own voice, and the child withdrew into silence.

I sat beside him on the hallway floor.