She helped with science projects.

She showed up to school recitals when I was held late at the base.

She remembered the small particular things, that Hannah could not stand white frosting but loved a strawberry filling, and to a father those small rememberings look like love.

There was one thing she said, early on, over a quiet dinner, that did more than anything else to convince me.

“I only want Hannah to understand,” she told me, “that loving me will never mean loving her mother any less.” I held onto that sentence.