It’s afternoon on the Monday after the Fourth of July. My daughters, ages five and six, sit perched on the edges of their beds. They are surrounded by a wealth of toys. Stuffed animals, dolls and furniture are strewn across the scene—I’ve lost count of the Elsas—and the shelves are bursting with doll clothes and accessories, animal figurines, board games, puppets, stray crayons and stickers, hair clips and jewelry gaudy with glitter. And yet, they are ignoring this childhood treasury, both sitting with shoulders slumped, their bodies tensed and uncertain, their eyes round and distant.

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“I wish I could live with you, Mommy,” says my littlest.

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“Me too,” says her sister. “Is that natural?”

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I say nothing, wanting to gather her in my arms, and Littlest answers instead. “Yes. That’s normal, living with Mommy and visiting Grandma. That’s normal.”

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“I want to be with you always, I love you both so much,” I tell them. I don’t know how to make them know, to really know and feel, that I am leaving because I have to, not because I want to.

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