Not in her.

In me.

She is fine with curtains.

She is fine with her uncle’s name being said out loud.

She asked, at twelve, whether she could have a photograph of her mother in her room and I said of course and she has one.

I am the one who checks.

I am the one who, when she is late back from the pool by nine minutes, has to physically stop myself from calling twice.

I am the one who has an alert set for her phone’s location and who has been told by a professional to turn it off and who has not turned it off.