My husband pushed me down the stairs, and as I lay shattered at the bottom, my mother-in-law called my father and said, “Come get your worthless daughter and take her back.” Dad gave her only one warning: “If she has so much as a scratch, your family will answer for it.” They laughed at him because they had absolutely no idea who my father truly was.

Lily picked the paint color for her room: a blue so bright the store clerk asked whether we were sure.

We were sure.

She put glow-in-the-dark stars above her bed and arranged her books alphabetically, then by size, then by whichever covers she liked best.

Moving out of Dad’s house made me nervous.

I had grown accustomed to his footsteps in the hallway and the kettle whistling at six.

He helped carry boxes but did not argue when I said I wanted to live independently.

“Call if the hose gets worse,” he said.