I waited until Lily was asleep.

Then I got on my knees and looked beneath her bed.

There were stuffed animals.

Two slippers.

A paperback book.

An old water bottle.

And at the very back, pushed against the wall, a pink shoebox.

I pulled it out.

The lid had three stickers on it.

A rainbow.

A puppy.

A glittery letter L.

Nothing about it looked frightening.

My hands shook when I opened it.

Inside were things I recognized.

A cracked tablet charger.

Two empty medication packets.

A school photograph of Lily.

Several folded notes.

And one small voice recorder I had bought her before treatment started.

Lily used to record silly songs on it.

She once spent an entire weekend interviewing everyone in the house as if she were a television reporter.

I picked it up.

The battery still worked.

There were twenty-seven audio files.

Most were old.

Lily singing.

Lily laughing with me.

Lily talking to her favorite stuffed rabbit.

Then I saw several recordings from the past two months.

The first began with silence.

Then Vanessa’s voice.

“You’re doing that coughing thing again.”

Lily answered quietly.

“My throat hurts.”

“You were fine when your father was here.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Don’t start.”

There was a pause.

Then Vanessa continued.

“You know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you like everyone worrying about you.”

The recording ended.

I stared at the device.

I played another.

This time, I heard dishes clattering.

Vanessa said, “Eat.”

“I feel sick.”

“Eat anyway.”

“The doctor said—”

“I know what the doctor said.”

Lily whispered, “Can I call Dad?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because your father has a job.”

Another clatter.

Then Vanessa said something that made my hand go numb.

“You don’t get to destroy his life just because yours is difficult.”

I stopped the recording.

For several seconds, I sat on the floor beside my daughter’s bed.

My knees hurt.

My back hurt.

I barely noticed.

I wanted to wake Lily.

I wanted to apologize until there were no words left.

But apologies would not erase what she had endured.

I played the next recording.

Vanessa sounded farther away.

“If you tell Rebecca I made you clean the bathroom, I’ll tell your father you refused your medicine.”

“I didn’t refuse.”

“It will be my word against yours.”

“I took it.”

“I know.”

Lily started crying.

Vanessa sighed.

“Stop.”

The recording ended.

I pressed another.

Lily’s voice came first.

“Please don’t throw it away.”

“You don’t need it.”

“Dad gave it to me.”

“You have too much junk.”

“That was Mommy’s.”

My thumb froze above the stop button.

Vanessa spoke again.

“Your mother is dead, Lily.”

Silence.

“Keeping every little thing she touched doesn’t bring her back.”

Then something hit the floor.

Lily cried out.

I looked toward her bed.

She was sleeping.

One hand rested on the pillow.

Her biological mother, Emily, had died when Lily was three.

Not from cancer.

A drunk driver crossed the center line on a rainy night.

For years, Lily had kept one scarf that belonged to her mother.

Blue.

Soft.

Nothing expensive.

Vanessa had told me it had accidentally been damaged in the laundry.

I now understood that had been a lie.

At the bottom of the shoebox was a piece of blue fabric.

A torn corner from Emily’s scarf.

I covered my mouth with my hand.

The grief came fast.

Not just for my daughter.

For Emily.

For the promise I had made beside her hospital bed after the accident.

I promise I’ll protect her.

At the time, Lily had been asleep against my chest.

Three years later, I married Vanessa.

I had believed she loved Lily.

Vanessa attended school plays.

She packed lunches.

She sat beside Lily at pediatric appointments.

When Lily was diagnosed with a brain tumor at seven, Vanessa cried in the hospital hallway.

She held me while I fell apart.

Maybe some of it had been real.

Maybe none of it had.

I did not know anymore.

The final item in the box was a folded sheet of paper.

It was Lily’s handwriting.

Large uneven letters.

At the top she had written:

THINGS I DO WRONG.

Underneath was a list.

Get sick.

Need Dad.

Cry.

Walk too slow.

Forget things.

Make noise at night.

Talk about Mom.

Make Dad sad.

At the bottom, written smaller than everything else, were six words.

Try harder so Vanessa likes me.

I sat there until morning.

When sunlight finally crept across the floor, I had reached one conclusion.

I was no longer deciding whether my marriage could be saved.

I was deciding how quickly I could end it.