The fork never reached my mother's mouth. It hung there, trembling, while my four-year-old daughter stood on her dining chair and pointed across the roast chicken at the woman I had married three weeks earlier. *She's not my new mommy. She's a monster.*

I carried Lily upstairs after dinner.

Meredith followed us as far as the landing, stopping when I turned toward her.

"Please don't make this into something it isn't," she said quietly.

"I need to speak to my daughter alone."

"David, she's four. She doesn't understand the consequences of making accusations."

"Then you shouldn't be afraid of what she'll tell me."

Meredith stared at me.

For a moment, her expression hardened into something cold and unfamiliar. Then the sadness returned, perfectly arranged.

"You're grieving, David. You have been since Sarah died. I thought I could help you, but I can't compete with a dead woman."

I looked at her.

"This isn't about competing with Sarah. It's about Lily."

"Everything is about Sarah in this house."

She turned and walked downstairs.

I waited until I heard the study door close before entering Lily's bedroom.

My daughter was sitting on her bed with Bunny tucked beneath her chin. Her little shoes lay neatly beside the dresser. The night-light cast a soft yellow circle across the floor, and the room looked exactly as it had when Sarah decorated it four years earlier.

Except for one thing.

The photograph of Sarah and Lily that used to sit on the bedside table was gone.

I had noticed its absence earlier that week but assumed Meredith had moved it while cleaning.

Now I sat beside Lily.

"Can you tell Daddy what happens when Meredith puts you in the laundry room?"

Lily rubbed Bunny's ear.

"She says I need to think about what I did."

"What did you do?"

"Sometimes I spill milk. Sometimes I cry when you leave. Sometimes I ask for Mommy."

My throat tightened.

"And then she locks the door?"

Lily nodded.

"Is it dark?"

"There's a little light under the door."

"Do you know how long you're in there?"

She thought carefully.

"Sometimes the sun moves from the little window to the washing machine. Sometimes it goes away."

I had to look toward the wall to keep my face calm.

"Does Meredith ever hurt you?"

Lily touched her wrist.

"She holds me when I try to leave."

I gently examined the red mark.

"Does she do that a lot?"

"When I don't listen."

I took her small hand.

"Sweetheart, you can always tell me when something scares you. You will never get in trouble for telling Daddy the truth."

She looked at me with an expression I hoped I would never see again.

"Will you make her stop being angry?"

"Yes."

"Will you make her love me?"

The question nearly broke me.

I pulled Lily into my arms.

"You don't have to make anyone love you. You're already loved. Nothing you do could change that."

She began to cry, quietly at first, then with the exhausted desperation of a child who had been holding her fear inside for too long.

I stayed beside her until she fell asleep.

Then I went downstairs.

Meredith was in the kitchen, wiping the already spotless counter.

"We need to talk."

She didn't look up.

"Not tonight, David."

"How long have you been locking Lily in the laundry room?"

"I told you, it's a timeout."

"How long?"

She threw the cloth into the sink.

"Would you rather I let her control the entire household? She screams whenever I try to establish a routine. She throws herself on the floor. She refuses to eat unless I serve her exactly what she wants."

"She's four."

"And she's manipulating you."

I stared at my wife.

"She asked me if I could make you love her."

For the first time, Meredith looked away.

Then she turned back with tears in her eyes.

"You're going to destroy our marriage because a grieving child told a story?"

I didn't answer.

Instead, I walked to the basement door, unlocked it, and entered the laundry room.

The room smelled of detergent and warm cotton. A narrow window sat high on the wall, and a washing machine stood beneath it.

I found a small wooden chair beside the dryer.

On the floor were several tissues, a broken crayon, and a little red shoe.