Dad told me I needed to stop talking about Maisie in front of Mom, that it upset her too much. To him, my mom’s happiness is the most important thing. It’s bigger than mine or Clay’s or even his own. He doesn’t understand that to someone with my memory, the sorrow of the first day is always there. It bleeds across time and fills every crack of every day afterward. It stays with me no matter how much I try to get rid of it. How can you get over loss if it doesn’t ever fade?

When Gram first moved in with us, I told her about Maisie and the night she died. She listened patiently as I told her that memory and so many more. She didn’t shake her head and explain why they couldn’t be real.

I’d been too young to know exact dates, but I could keep track of the days from when the ambulance came. I could remember that the bell down the street rang twelve times the morning after—which made it a Sunday. That I didn’t know how to read yet but I knew my letters—which made me three. I could remember how the sun beat down on my head when I sat outside but the breeze was icy—which made it winter. How Dad took apart the hand-painted crib and wept when I asked him to make me lunch. How to this day, whenever he fixes me a sandwich, I worry he might cry again.

Gram pursed her lips when I told her all this. “You have an extraordinary memory, Lulu,” she said. “Amazing, really. Have you told your parents?”

I thought she could make my parents understand. But not soon after, I overheard Dad and her arguing. “She was too young to remember that, Mom. She was barely three when it happened. We have enough on our plates without you filling her head with nonsense.”

When Gram tucked me in later that night, she kissed my forehead. “Some people can only see their own sadness,” she whispered. “One day they’ll be ready. In the meantime, you tell me. You can tell me anything.”

That was enough for me. I didn’t need everyone to see me. It was enough that she did.

And now the house is filled with laughter again. Mom plays with Clay instead of acting like he doesn’t exist. She and Dad listen to us talk with a lightness I hadn’t realized I missed.

But I can’t forget how easy it was for them to turn away and act like Clay and I weren’t there. If the brain can predict when we’re going to tickle ourselves, then shouldn’t it also predict when we know we’re about to get hurt and cancel out that reaction too? How can we protect ourselves if our brains won’t let us?