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

We remained silent.

Outside, a garbage truck drove by.

Inside, the refrigerator hummed with that indifference that appliances have toward human tragedies.

Then I understood something that sustained me afterward: my decision didn’t depend solely on winning.

It depended on not becoming the first person to doubt Sophie again.

That was, ultimately, the point of no return.

Not the call to the police.