**
"We can still be parents, Jules."
Nancy was three when we brought her home.
She stood in our doorway with a little backpack clutched tight to her chest. She was quiet and observant.
Julia crouched down, her voice soft and full of love.
"Hi, sweetheart. I'm Julia, and this is Bruce. We're going to be your mom and dad now."
Nancy looked at us both. She didn't smile. She didn't cry. She didn't do much of anything. She just took a step inside like she was testing the floor.
I held out my hand, palm up.
She was quiet and observant.
"Hi, Nancy," I said. "I'm glad you're here, sweetheart. Your room is all set up for you."
She stared at my hand but didn't take it. Then she walked past me into the house.
Her file said her mother had left when Nancy was 18 months old. There was no father listed, just a blank line where a whole person should have been.
Julia read that and went quiet for a long time.
"How does someone do that?" she asked, voice small.
I didn't have an answer.
"How does someone do that?"
I only knew Nancy flinched at sudden noises and lined up her shoes by the door like she needed reassurance that she could leave if she had to.
**
Two years later, when Nancy was five, my wife disappeared.
I came home and found a note on the counter, held down by the salt shaker like it was a reminder to buy milk.
"Bruce,
I don't want this life anymore. I'm sorry. But this... this family isn't for me. I can't bond with Nancy. I'm losing you to her.
I'm... out."
There was no address, no call, and no explanation.
I read it twice, then a third time, as if waiting for it to change.
**
"I don't want this life anymore."
That night, I sat beside Nancy's bed in the dark, the note crumpled in my fist.
My daughter was asleep under her pink blanket, one hand curled against her cheek like she'd never been disappointed in her life.
I realized then that I had a choice. I could disappear too.
But I didn't.
**
I could disappear too.
In the morning, Nancy stood in the kitchen staring at Julia's empty chair like it might explain itself if she stared hard enough.
