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

down slowly, as if his legs cannot hold him.

The second truth is near us now. I can feel it breathing under the door.

It is not only three weeks.

It has never been only three weeks.

Andrew scrolls through his messages with shaking fingers. Then he stops.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

His face has gone gray.

“She sent me photos.”

He turns the screen toward continue reading …