I worked extra shifts, including doubles when reliable care arrangements made them possible.

I learned that pink was not one color and that choosing the wrong hairband could matter terribly to a five-year-old.

I kept track of shoes, school forms, appointments, and which child needed quiet when another needed to speak.

I wanted to be everywhere.

I could not always manage it.

But the girls knew who would arrange the ride, answer the telephone, sit beside them, and return when work was finished.

Now Chloe, my eldest, was getting married.

When I showed her the message, she read it carefully and said, “Dad, tell her she’s welcome.

I’ll take care of everything.”

I did not want to see Elena.

I did not want her bringing Julian or whoever she meant by her new family.

But it was Chloe’s wedding, and my discomfort did not give me the right to decide her guest list.

On the day itself, I stood among all six daughters and wondered how I had arrived at a morning when they looked so grown and I still knew which one had once refused to wear socks with seams.

Chloe was twenty-eight.