He had the girls’ school calendar.

And he had, in his own hand, signed the legal consent that let our daughters live with me, permanently, in Madrid.

He had simply signed it without reading it, the way he signed everything, certain that nothing with my name on it could ever matter more than something with his.

I want to dwell on that for a moment, because it matters to how I think about all of it: I did nothing to Bryce that Bryce did not do to himself.

I forged nothing, hid nothing, stole nothing.