The first time Lily held my hand, she could only grasp my pinky and ring finger, and though she’d grown fast as knotweed over the years, at age nine she still gripped the same two fingers when we walked home from school together. Uncapped fire hydrants hosed down passing cars, making the September heat bearable as we side-stepped puddles and circumvented ladies carting sweet mangos sprinkled with Tajín. Lily wore a new tie-dye shirt we had made over the summer, though her skirt was beginning to fray around the hem. One thread in particular had unraveled enough to tickle her shin, and every couple of steps she would swat at it, as though it were a mosquito.

“Dad?” she said, her face turned up toward mine—inquisitive black eyes pinched down at the outer corners, giving her a serious look in line with her nature. I had been staring, perhaps too intently, at the thread, waving and dancing with each of her steps. I wanted to snip it or pull it, fix it, but instead I looked back to Lily with a smile.

“Yes, Moose?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Something about maps?”

“Yeah, Dad,” she said, with an exasperated emphasis on the word Dad that took me by surprise. For as long as I’d known Lily she’d been a perfect daughter—perceptive, obedient, and smart—but also, especially around me, overly polite and presentable as though I might run away if I realized she was capable of being upset. This made sense: I saw her only once a week, so she always wanted to present the best version of herself, as though auditioning for a more permanent role in my life. So I didn’t know whether to be delighted or distressed by her change in tone.