What I had failed to provide was the only thing she actually needed, which was me — not my money, not my provision, but my consistent, physical, unvanishing presence, night after night, in the chair beside her bed.

My sister’s cruelty had taught my daughter that the people she loved disappeared, and no amount of money could unteach that lesson; only presence could, the daily, repeated, undramatic proof that this time, the person she loved was going to still be there in the morning.

And so I decided that whatever else I did or failed to do as a father, I would get this one thing right.

I would be there.