The Day I Dropped My Husband at the Airport, My Eight-Year-Old Daughter Warned Me Not to Go Home. Minutes Later, I Saw Why.

Then she asked whether the building had gas appliances.

“No,” Rachel said, pointing toward the electric stove.

“Would you like to see?”

Lily nodded.

Rachel showed her the controls and then asked whether she wanted macaroni or toast for dinner.

She chose toast.

I understood why: after a day in which adults had made terrible choices, being allowed to decide something harmless was a relief.

At bedtime Lily asked to sleep with the hallway light on.