I don't remember telling Ava to go downstairs.
I remember only that she looked between Kelly and me with enormous blue eyes, waiting for one of us to explain why two adults had suddenly gone pale.
“Daddy?”
I turned toward her.
“Sweetheart, would you take your paper stars to the living room?”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Kelly and I need to talk about something important.”
Ava looked toward the bracelet.
“Is she in trouble?”
Kelly immediately shook her head.
“No, honey.”
Her voice trembled.
“I'm not in trouble.”
Ava considered that.
Then carefully placed the string of stars in her little cardboard box.
Before leaving, she approached Kelly and touched her shoulder.
“It's okay.”
Kelly's expression crumpled.
Ava continued.
“Daddy says people forget things sometimes.”
Then she went downstairs.
I waited until her footsteps faded.
Only then did I turn back toward Kelly.
She was staring at the silver bracelet as though it had appeared from nowhere.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
I shook my head.
“There's nothing to apologize for.”
Her fingers trembled.
“I don't know if it's really what I think it is.”
“Okay.”
She looked up.
“Aren't you going to ask me what happened?”
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
I wanted to grab every fragment of information she possessed and force it into a complete picture.
For three years, I'd imagined the accident thousands of times.
I knew the official report almost by heart.
Hannah had been driving Ava home on a winter evening when her vehicle left its lane near a dangerous intersection, struck another car, and collided with a roadside barrier.
The investigation concluded that icy conditions and loss of control were the probable causes.
No other driver had been identified as responsible for the initial loss of control.
Hannah died from her injuries.
Ava survived with a broken arm, bruises, and memories too fragmented for a five-year-old to explain.
I hadn't been there.
That fact haunted me.
I was working late at the clinic when the hospital called.
By the time I arrived, Hannah was gone.
Ava was sedated and surrounded by monitors.
And somebody had placed my wife's wedding ring inside a little plastic bag.
I spent months reading the accident report, searching for something that might make sense of it.
Eventually, I stopped.
Not because I understood.
Because Ava needed a father who could still function.