The dressing room door swung open and Brooklyn came in, one of our triplets, all fierce protective energy, exactly as she had been since she was small.

“I’ll tell you right now,” she announced, “if Laura makes a scene today, I am walking straight outside before I say something I can’t take back.” Behind her came Daisy, our youngest, the baby who had been nine months old in my arms the day her mother left, now a young woman in a soft blue dress, anxiously twisting a thin silver bracelet around her wrist.

“Dad?” she said.

“Yes, sweetheart?” “Do I have to hug her when she gets here?” Daisy asked, and her voice was very small.