I put my arms around her small shoulders and held back the tears.

“You’re five years old, Elodie.

Your only job in this house is to play, and learn, and be loved.” She squeezed my neck so hard I could barely breathe.

I do not think I will ever forget the way she watched that machine — the frank astonishment on her face, as though a household appliance were a kind of miracle, which to her I suppose it was.

Because a dishwasher, to my daughter, was not a convenience.

It was proof.