She was not being dramatic.

She was not fishing for reassurance.

She was a small scientist examining the data of her own life and reaching a frightening hypothesis, and she wanted to know if it was correct, and she trusted me to tell her the truth even if the truth was that she was, in fact, less.

That a child of mine had gathered enough evidence over three years to seriously entertain that hypothesis is the single greatest failure of my life as her mother, and I will carry it.

I should have burned Gene’s whole careful machine to the ground the first Christmas.