The tests no doctor could explain.

The way I got worse, never better, no matter what treatment we tried.

The strange coincidence that my worst mornings always followed my earliest cups of tea.

The doctors had been looking for a disease, and there was no disease, and so of course they had found nothing — you cannot diagnose a crime as an illness.

I had spent two years and a fortune searching for a medical answer to a criminal question, and the answer had been down the hall the whole time, asleep, having tucked in my daughter and kissed my forehead and set out the tea things for the morning.

I thought about how close it had come.