My daughter Grace d:ied at five, and at first I thought the worst moment was hearing the doctor say, “I’m sorry. She didn’t make it.” It wasn’t. The worst moment came a week later, when I unfolded a note hidden in the sleeve of her pink sweater and read, “Your husband is lying to you. Watch the video. Alone.”

Grace had been healthy at first. She woke up with a fever on a Tuesday. By Thursday night she was lying in a hospital bed with wires across her chest and a red allergy band around her wrist.

“Penicillin,” I kept repeating. “Severe. Please write it down.”

Every person nodded as if they understood.

Daniel stood at the end of the bed with his hands tucked into his pockets, wearing that tight, polite expression he used with strangers. He kissed Grace on the forehead and told her she was brave.

Then his phone buzzed, and he stepped into the hallway.

When I asked who it was, he said, “Work. It’s nothing.”