He had built her a door of her own.

He just hadn’t told me, because — I understood this later — he hadn’t wanted me to have to carry it either.

Chapter 8 — Am I Really Just Dad’s Girl?

At nine twelve that night I went to check on Holly and found her sitting cross-legged on the edge of the guest bed, still in the wrinkled gold dress, the cheap candle balanced in her lap.

She was not crying.