For months I had lain awake wondering whether I’d done something reckless, uprooting them across an ocean, tearing them out of the only home they’d known.

That morning, over a bowl of pancake batter, my daughters answered the question for me.

Children don’t understand divorces, or infidelity, or family trusts, or corporate assets.

But they understand, perfectly and in their bodies, what it feels like to live inside a sad house — and they can hear, without being told, the moment their mother starts to sing again.

I hadn’t even known I’d stopped.