Somewhere, in the accumulation of small daily lessons that raise a person, Lily had absorbed the idea that her needs were an inconvenience, that asking for help was a kind of failure, that being unable to manage on her own was something to be ashamed of.

Children do not come into the world believing that.

A baby cries for what it needs without a shred of guilt, because it has not yet been taught that its needs are a burden to anyone.

That guilt is learned.

And my daughter had learned it, and I had to face, kneeling on that kitchen floor, that she had partly learned it in my own house, in the years while I was distracted and Wendy was doing whatever Wendy was doing, and neither of us was watching closely enough to notice our child quietly concluding that she should not be too much trouble.

The apology was not the day’s smallest detail.