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

“What are you doing?” he asked.
He didn’t even sound furious.
He sounded annoyed, as if I had interrupted some random household chore, as if I were the intruder in that house.

I lifted Sophie out of the bath without a thought for the spilled water or my soaked clothes.
I just grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her, and held her close.

Mark jumped up.
He still had the paper cup in his hand.
I saw a white powder stuck to the wet rim, and the timer was still counting down the seconds on the sink.

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