I didn’t, because I was afraid of being the dramatic one, and my fear had cost my daughter three years and brought her to this — sitting in a wrinkled gold dress asking whether she was really anybody’s.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Brandon stepped into the room behind me.

Before I could answer, Brandon came into the room behind me.

He crossed the floor and went down on his knees in front of her, so that his eyes were below hers, looking up, and he took both her small hands into his big ones.

“You are my daughter,” he said, and his voice was low and steady and left no crack for doubt to get through.

“You are my daughter.