In the fourth month, in a play session, Sophie described something.

Some days before her mother died — she could not date it, and never could — she had gone into her parents’ bedroom in the morning without knocking.

Her mother was standing at the mirror in her work clothes with the collar of her shirt pulled down on one side, looking at her own neck.

Sophie had asked what was wrong.

Emily had pulled the collar back up and said, “Nothing, baby.

I bumped into something.”