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

face twists.

“Yes.”

“Are you mad at me?”

He drops to his knees beside the bed.

“No. No, sweetheart. I am mad at myself. Never at you.”

Emma looks at me, asking without words if she is safe.

I nod.

She reaches one hand toward Andrew.

Only one.

But it is enough to break him.

He holds her tiny fingers and presses them to his forehead.

“I should have listened,” he continue reading …