I walked down the asphalt drive to my 2012 Honda CR-V.

Inside, the car smelled of old crayons and stale apple slices.

I buckled Emma into her car seat in the back.

She didn’t fight me or try to wriggle away.

She just stared at the back of the passenger seat.

“Does it hurt, baby?” I asked.

“Aunt Vanessa got mad,” Emma whispered.

“Why did she get mad?”