She didn’t show up unannounced.

A child-protection worker had asked whether I was willing to consider a supervised conversation; I said yes because I wanted answers, not because anyone told me I owed her forgiveness.

We met in a small room at a family-services office.

Colleen sat beside me, and a worker named Ms.

Bell remained nearby.

Tiffany wore jeans and a gray sweater.

Without makeup, she looked younger than nineteen, almost like the girl who used to sneak candy into my room when we were little.

“Hi,” she said.