Emily didn’t speak to Priya for nineteen days. On the twentieth day, Priya came to the hospital and sat in the corridor for six hours without entering the ward. Eventually, Emily sent her a single word: “Come.” Their friendship survived, although I imagine neither of them would ever forget what happened in my garden. On February fourteenth, Emily gave birth to a little girl named Wren at thirty-eight weeks and two days. They had chosen that hospital because its specialists performed the operation her daughter needed. Wren underwent surgery when she was thirty-one hours old. It lasted four hours and ten minutes. I walked the hospital corridor so many times that a nurse finally brought me a chair and made me sit down. Today, Wren is eight months old. She has a small scar along her left side, about the length of my little finger, and she has no idea it’s there. Priya is her godmother. Jake suggested it, and he was right.

People who hear this story seem to divide immediately. Some believe Priya’s actions were monstrous, especially because fifty people, including nine children, witnessed Emily’s breakdown. Others believe she was the only adult willing to force the family to face what was happening. I have had eighteen months to think about it, and I still don’t know where I stand. But I know this: I had five weeks to notice my daughter was losing weight and driving six hours every fortnight. Instead, I noticed the cupcakes. Priya had to fill a box with black balloons and expose herself on camera to make me look at my daughter. And it worked. That is the truth I find hardest to admit.