I told my father that night. He didn’t yell. He just sat very still and then drove to Iris’s house. They talked for three hours. She cried and said she couldn’t bear watching him be happy when her daughter couldn’t be. He told her he had grieved every single day too. He also asked her to hand over the spare key to his house. Iris agreed to see a grief counselor, and the police gave her a formal warning.

Jessica answered my calls again the next day and apologized for disappearing. My father wrote to every woman Iris had frightened away, explaining the truth. Most never answered. One did. Her name was Carol, the third woman he had dated, and she had kept the text, wondering. They have been together for a year now. Last Sunday, Iris joined us for dinner. She brought my mother’s favorite cake. Carol cut it. My father thanked her for coming.