One evening, not long before the end, Lucia was coloring at the kitchen island while I made dinner, and she looked up at me with the terrible directness of a five-year-old.

“Mom, why does Dad smile when he looks at his phone, but when we talk to him he’s always tired?”

I did not know how to answer that.

“Adults have complicated things on their minds sometimes, sweetheart.”

Lucia set down her crayon and considered this.

“Do the things Dad does make you sad?”

I looked at my little girl for a long moment.

I have never been able to lie to her; she has a way of looking at you that makes the lie feel pointless before it’s out of your mouth.