My five-year-old daughter always bathed with my husband.

rfully whispered “secret,” an adult finally acted.

One morning, months later, I couldn’t sleep and went down to my sister’s kitchen for a glass of water.

I found her there, barefoot, smoking by the open window.

She had never smoked inside the house.

Nor did she almost ever smoke.

I knew that the weariness was catching up with her too.

“Sometimes I think it would all be easier if you could just try it once and be done with it,” she told me.

She didn’t sound cruel.

She sounded defeated by my exhaustion.

“I know,” I replied. “

But I also know that even if I try, nothing ends.

It only changes the form of the pain.”