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

Emma blinks sleepily.

“Juice.”

I stiffen before I can stop myself.

The nurse notices.

So does Andrew.

He stands.

“I’ll get a sealed one,” he says. “And Mommy opens it.”

Emma nods.

A small rule.

A simple one.

A beginning that belongs to us.

When he returns, he places the bottle in my hand without opening it. I crack the seal. The sound is tiny, ordinary, almost continue reading …