THE HOSPITAL SAID MY NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WAS GONE — AND MY HUSBAND BE.GGED THEM NOT TO LET ME SEE HER. TWO WEEKS AFTER THE FU.NERAL, OUR LOYAL DOG DR.OPPED HER YELLOW CARDIGAN AT MY FEET. IT WASN’T TORN. IT SMELLED LIKE HER SHAMPOO. AND THE SLEEVES WERE STILL WET WITH PURPLE PAINT.

Looking at my husband.

My husband, who’d let me grieve.

Who’d watched me stand in Ruby’s doorway every night.

Who’d walked past me at five in the morning to bring our daughter juice boxes.

“You let me think she was gone,” I said.

“Fifteen days.”

He looked up at me.

“I know.”

“You could have told me the day you woke up.”

“I know.”

“You could have trusted me.”

He was quiet for a second.

“I did trust you, Hannah,” he said.

“I trusted you to love her.”

“I didn’t trust you to hate him.”

It landed like a slap.

Because it was true.

“I’d do it again,” he said.

“I know you would,” I said.

“That’s the part I can’t forgive.”

“Not yet.”

He nodded.

He didn’t argue.

Maybe it was the first honest thing either of us had done in six weeks.

I went back inside the shed.