But Laura had just stood before a room full of people and accused me of stealing her children from her, and I understood, in that moment, that the truth needed to be complete or it would be nothing.

So I gave my daughter the smallest nod.

Samantha opened the worn notebook, and she read, quietly, into the silent room.

“Year two,” she read.

“Samantha asked today why her mother didn’t come to her school play.

I told her that she was loved, and that I hoped one day that would be comfort enough.” She turned a page, and her own voice wavered.

“Year six.