Not a shout, not an accusation, just a plain observation laid down in the quiet, the natural conclusion of Brenda’s own logic.

If he had not signed up for the stress of his sick child, then he had not signed up for his child, because there is no version of fatherhood that comes without her.

Brenda scoffed, loudly, a sharp dismissive sound, but I did not even look at her.

I had stopped, in that moment, being interested in Brenda at all.

She was only ever the voice; she was not the one who had made vows to me, not the one whose child slept in my arms.