My entire family was enjoying dinner when I arrived home.

The financial inquiry into Renata took four months.

The man she had spoken to about the deed was found.

He wasn't a lawyer.

He was a notary with a sideline in document preparation who had, on two previous occasions, helped clients with paperwork that later turned out to be fraudulent.

He cooperated quickly when approached.

He confirmed the conversation.

He confirmed Renata had asked him to prepare documents that would, in effect, reduce my ownership stake in the property by inserting a clause into a refinancing application she had intended to have Sandra sign without my knowledge.

The application had never been submitted.

I had come home too soon.

Renata was charged with attempted fraud.

The case moved slowly, the way these things do, through hearings and continuances and procedural delays.

But it moved.

Paul called me when the charge was formally filed.

"She's saying I betrayed the family," he said.

"She's not speaking to me."

"I'm sorry, Paul."

"Don't be." He was quiet for a moment.

"She put a three-year-old under a table to protect a scheme.

I should have said something sooner.

I've got to live with that."

I didn't argue with him.

"How's Lily?" he asked.

"She's good.

She started nursery school last month.

She made a friend named Bea.

She talks about her constantly."

Paul made a sound that might have been a laugh.

"That's good.

That's really good."

Sandra's first supervised visit happened on a Saturday in October.

I dropped Lily at the contact center at ten and picked her up at two.

Lily came out holding a small stuffed rabbit Sandra had brought her.

She held it up for me to see.

"Mommy gave me this.

Her name is Clara."

"Clara's a good name."

"Mommy cried a little bit." Lily looked at the rabbit.

"I told her it was okay."

We drove home.

Lily held Clara the whole way.

I didn't ask anything else about the visit.

I didn't need to.

Lily would tell me what she wanted to tell me, in her own time, the way she always had.

That evening I made dinner for two.

Lily sat at the table — at the table, in her chair, with her plate — and told me about a game she and Bea had invented that involved a dragon and a magic bridge and rules that changed every time she explained them.

I listened to all of it.

After she was in bed, I sat in the quiet of the kitchen with a cup of tea and thought about the night I had walked through the front door and found her underneath it.

Dirty.

Hungry.

Reaching for me.

She had known, even then, that I would come.

She had heard the door and crawled toward it without hesitation.

I thought about that for a long time.

Then I washed the cup, turned off the kitchen light, and went to check on her.

She was asleep on her side, one arm around Clara, her breathing slow and even.

I stood in the doorway for a moment.

Then I pulled the door to — not closed, just to, the way she liked it — and went to bed.

For the first time in months, I slept the whole night through.

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