I bought her a coat when she was fifteen because she had been wearing a hooded sweatshirt through a New York January and would not tell her parents she was cold, because she had spent five years in a system that had taught her not to ask for things.

I did her hair for prom.

I ran her through mock interviews at twenty-two — sitting across from her at that same table with a printed list of questions, making her do it three times, telling her to stop apologizing at the start of every answer.

She got the job.

She held my son the day we brought him home from the hospital.

There is a photograph of it.