Dinner appeared; laundry renewed itself in drawers; Mia arrived at school fed and dressed and on time, and a doctor’s appointment was made and kept, and the birthday gifts for her friends were bought and wrapped, and the pediatrician’s number was known, and the fact that she hated hot milk and needed the rabbit facing the door and got carsick if she read in the car — all of it was simply known, by someone, somewhere in the machinery of the house, and Gavin had never once had to be that someone.

He thought I did nothing all day.

He said it, more than once, with a little laugh, what do you even do all day — and the terrible thing is that for a while I half-believed him, since the work I did was the kind that only becomes visible when it stops.

No one notices the dam.

They only notice the flood.

And so when I picked up my phone in that kitchen and told him he would have the chance to do everything I did, I was not making a threat.