Samantha looked at me, steady and unblinking.

“What she did was ugly,” she said.

“The box isn’t ugly.

The box is just proof.

There’s a difference, Dad, and you’ve spent fifteen years confusing the two.” “This is your wedding,” I argued, “not a courtroom.” “She’s the one putting you on trial,” Samantha countered, without missing a beat.

“She has been for fifteen years.

She just does it where you can’t hear her.”

I stood up and gripped the back of a dining chair, because I needed something to hold.