I was chopping vegetables when my four-year-old daughter

for lunch, before she moved in. Emma crying in her room. Diane saying she bumped into the dresser. Me accepting it because Emma was three and clumsy and Diane looked offended when I asked twice.

“She was with your mother,” I say.

Andrew shakes his head.

“No.”

“She was. I was in the shower. Diane was watching her. She said Emma hit the dresser.”

Andrew sits continue reading …