Truth was, Emily loved Desiree to a degree that was disturbing. Nights ago, Em and I had been snuggled under her plush blanket in her twin bed, reading a book, when Emily said, “OK so, I don’t want to say this.”

“What is it?”

Emily had closed her eyes. “I can’t.”

“You can tell me anything, Em. I promise. I won’t get mad or sad or anything.” Keeping my voice calm while all my alarms were going off.

“OK. So I’ll just say it. But don’t get sad. Oh my gosh. I shouldn’t say this.”

“It’s OK, Em. Go ahead, sweetie.”

“OK. So. If you die, can Miss Dez be my mom?” Beside me, she shut her eyes hard, bit her lip, and made her tiny hands into fists.

Don’t feel sad. She’s a sweet, innocent kid. This had been a complex question, intricate like a knitted glove, but it was comprised of simple knots. One knot being: she had probably worried at some point about me dying because she loved me so much. Another simple knot being: she’d worried about keeping a family unit together. Her idea of a family necessitated a mother.

Or, she just likes Desiree more than you.

“If I died, you’d still have Dad and Sawyer.”

“Well, could Dad marry Miss Dez and they could be my parents?”

“I’m healthy, Emily. I don’t think I’ll die until you’re old. But if I did die,” I said, “Daddy could remarry someone. If he wanted.” Seeds of impatience and irritation inside me had been wetted and were beginning to swell. “Let’s finish our book.”

In the passenger seat, Desiree had her chin up, face against the breeze out her window.

“So, what’s your trick with kids anyway? You’re such a natural,” I said. That I was seeking insight from a person who’d spent her evening in a holding cell was not lost on me. Still, I was curious.

The funny thing about memory loss was, it’s not only memories you’re missing; the nuances of social norms are slightly out of reach too. In this case, parenting norms. I didn’t remember how my mom spoke to me, how she taught me, when she was strict, or when she was funny. She hadn’t always been drunk and mean. But the thing was, there wasn’t much there. I could count on one hand the conversations I remembered having with my mom. This lack of experience felt like I was going through life without a map, without a landmark, without references of how I should speak to my kids.