And I still put my hand on the doorframe of my daughter’s room before I go, every time, like a man checking a lock he has already checked.

That is what it cost.

Not a conviction and not a courtroom speech.

A hundred and four Tuesdays, a house, a partner’s silence, and a man who does not fly.

Part Eighteen: Nine

She is nine now.

The panda mug survived.

It has a second chip and a hairline crack and it has twice been retired by adults and twice reinstated by its owner, and it is on the second shelf of a different kitchen in a different part of Greenwich, and it still gets warm milk on the mornings when she wants it, which is fewer mornings than it used to be, because she is nine and has views about milk now.