My seven-year-old daughter, Lily, was nowhere in that picture.
I followed the sound into the kitchen.
And there she was.
She was balanced on a step stool at the sink, still wearing the blue velvet dress I’d bought her for Christmas Eve. Her sleeves were shoved up unevenly past her elbows. Her curls had come loose around her face. Her little hands were dripping, and her eyes were red and swollen as she rinsed dessert plates one at a time.
Next to her sat a trash bag stuffed with crumpled napkins, paper cups, and tangled ribbon.
Something inside me went very, very quiet.
“Lily?”
She spun around so fast she nearly fell off the stool.
“Daddy.”
Her voice shook.
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