Mine wasn’t the doctor’s diagnosis, or the courtroom, or the final divorce papers.

It was a turn signal blinking at the wrong exit.

It was my daughter asking whether her father would be angry.

And it was my answer: Let him be mad at me.

After the exhibition, Sadie took my hand as we walked into the warm evening.

“Mom,” she said, “can we get ice cream?”

“Even after brownies last night?”

“Especially after brownies last night.”