I shifted the baby higher against my chest.

She looked at Daisy for a brief second, our nine-month-old, and then she looked back at me, and she said, “For you, maybe.” I have never forgotten those three words, or the ease with which she said them.

“You cannot just walk out on six young children,” I said, and my voice was trembling now, past hiding it.

Her expression hardened into something final.

“You cannot give me the life I want,” she said.