I was ten, standing in the shadows when this conversation took place, and I’ve replayed it hundreds of times since. I have three daughters. I love them all. There were words after that, but I was already slipping away. These were the ones I wanted. For years, I clung to them as proof that I wasn’t a mistake. Even when I tried to retrieve the others, these were the ones I heard.

Then I left home and became a different person, and the memory shimmered with doubt. Was that challenge on the part of my mother, who rarely challenged my father? Was that deference on the part of my father, who rarely deferred to anyone? Was there an element of rote in their exchange, like the words were part of a script that had to be repeated to be believed? We’ve talked about this. What had that meant? Was it a general statement of parenting, or a specific reference to something unique to these parents?

Each time I’ve seen my father in recent years, I feel apart, and oh, I know. I’m likely transferring childhood feelings to the present. But then there are those other words, spoken right before I slipped away. At times I think I remember a phrase or two. But it may as well be imagination as fear.

My mother knew the whole truth. With her gone, it’s impossible to confirm.

With that thought, I realize that I’ve had enough for now. Now I need Joy. She is my unconditional love, no questions asked.

Closing the carton, one flap under the other, I turn to leave only to glance past, then return to, the end of the attic that holds things. Most are stacked on and around the high chair in which each of us once sat, in which our children would have sat had our lives not been pulled apart. Crossing there, I can’t resist touching the crocheted crib blanket that is tucked under an oversized bear on the seat of a bouncer. My breath hitches when I spot, half-hidden behind these things, the tiny table and chairs that we used for coloring, and on top of those, a pile of games—Candyland, Monopoly, Sorry! and—omigod, Where In the World is Carmen Sandiego! I loved that game.

But those memories are for another time. Joy is in town with the grandfather she barely knows, the aunt who’ll be running from kitchen to table and back, and a slew of utter strangers eating bacon and eggs. I’ve dallied long enough. She needs me.

She needs me? my thoughts mock as I return to my room. Hah! Joy Aldiss is irreverent enough to know how to handle herself. She doesn’t need me.

I need her.