At the bottom of the social worker’s note were three words: Father refuses meeting.

I stared until the letters blurred.

Natalie came over despite the hour.

She brought soup neither of us wanted and sat at the table without trying to make a terrible story manageable.

“Did you ever suspect?” she asked gently.

“Dad would get angry when I talked about her.

I thought grief had made him cruel.”

“Sometimes adults tell children a story so often it becomes the only one they can remember.”