In January, an email arrived with a photo. It was a picture of Chloe’s hands.

The acrylics were gone, replaced by short, unpolished nails. Her skin was dry and chapped.

She wore a stain-covered apron from a mid-tier chain restaurant.

Theresa, it read. I’m writing this on my break. I’ve been waitressing for four months. My feet bleed some nights. I get screamed at for cold soup.

I come home and Austin’s asleep from his warehouse shift, and I make Maya’s lunch with whatever energy I have left. I hated you for doing this to us. I wanted you to die on that ship.

But last night I was scrubbing grease off the stove, and I remembered you doing the exact same thing in our apartment after Maya was born. You did it so I could sleep.