I had always believed good parents never frightened their children.

Now I was learning that repair mattered too: admitting mistakes, making changes, and not asking a child to comfort you for what you had done.

In late winter, Harper’s class held a small concert.

She sang with the other children, sometimes a half-second behind, and waved at me from the stage.

My mother squeezed my hand so hard that it hurt.

For a few minutes, we weren’t thinking about the investigation or the people who had betrayed us.