Chapter 4: The Hairbrush

Milly woke me at six by sitting on my chest.

"Daddy, I'm hungry, and the dinosaurs are hungrier."

I had slept on the couch in the den with my shoes still on.

Marissa had gone to bed alone at one, and I had listened to her door click shut.

I looked up at my daughter's face and everything in me went quiet.

Sandy braids, a gap in her teeth, the little dent in her chin.

She was six years old and she had never done a single thing wrong.

"Pancakes," I said.

"With chocolate chips."

"With three chocolate chips, because Mommy counts."

"Four."

"Four," I said. "Don't tell her."

She screamed with joy and ran for the kitchen.

I got up with every muscle aching and followed her.

We made pancakes the way we always did, standing on a step stool at the stove.

Milly stirred, which meant the batter went on the counter, the floor and her pajamas.

I flipped, and she narrated every flip.

"And the pancake goes up, and up, and he's not coming down, Daddy, he's stuck on the fan!"

"He's not stuck."

"He's definitely stuck."

It was stuck.

I got the spatula and the pancake came down on my head.

She laughed so hard she had to sit on the floor.

I laughed too, and it nearly broke me.

This was the part nobody could take, I told myself.

Whatever the test said, this was mine.

The hairbrush was in her bathroom, a little purple one with a unicorn on the handle.

I had planned it all night, lying in the dark.

Eight to ten hairs with the root attached, said the clinic's website, in a clean envelope.

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