“I wanted to take more pictures. Not the kind on your phone that you delete or lose or upload to the cloud. I wanted the kind you keep. In case someday I need them.”

A silent understanding passed between us, and I wondered if he would acknowledge it. But instead he smiled widely.

“That sounds lovely,” he said.

Disappointed, but not surprised, I set my jaw slightly and I turned to leave. As I did I caught the second where his smile faded into something sad. Part of me wanted to walk out the door and get the shoes and pretend I hadn’t seen anything. Instead I turned around again.

“Dad, is everything OK?”

He pasted the smile, which I could see now was flimsy and empty, back on his face.

“Of course.” He waved away my concern.

I hesitated.

“Look, I know we aren’t really that good about talking about feelings. Unless you count me shouting at you. Do you need to climb out the window?”

“What? No, of course not.”

Thank goodness. I didn’t think I could really help my dad climb out the window now that I knew about the baby.

He looked at me, fine lines collecting around his eyes.

“This reminds me of my wedding,” he said. I could tell he was having to force out the words because it was exactly how I sounded when I was trying to talk to Ruby about my feelings. “To Liz, I mean.”

I wasn’t sure I was ready for this conversation.

“I know you think I don’t love her—”

“I don’t think that. I know you love her still,” I said, thinking of the anniversary presents and the way he visited every time she was upset. “In your own way,” I added uneasily, thinking of how he was getting remarried less than a year after she moved out.

He closed his eyes in a pained expression.

“Saoirse, you really know how to say the things that hurt the most.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m being honest. I know you loved Mum. I watched the video. I could see it.”

“But?”

“But you didn’t love her enough. You let her go.” I was afraid to say the next thing, but I had to get it out of my head and into a real conversation between us. “Would you do that to me too?”

“Saoirse, you’re my daughter, I would never—”

“Well, there you go, then,” I interrupted. “You can love someone enough, just not her.” Though I wasn’t sure I believed him when he said that either.

“I had to do it,” he pleaded. “Both our lives would have been over if we’d kept her at home.”

I didn’t know if he meant me and him or him and Mum.