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2.

But now I had her number. Now I finally, finally had a way to reach her. I pressed CALL BACK and got a busy signal. I tried again, two-three-four times: busy-busy-busy. Because she was calling me . I was so excited, my hands were shaking. I forced myself to stop dialing and waited for the phone to ring. I sat at the foot of the bed and glanced impatiently around my daughter’s bedroom.

All her old stuff was still here. I never had houseguests, never had any reason to get rid of it. All her posters from high school were still taped up: One Direction and the Jonas Brothers and a goofy grinning sloth hanging from a tree. There was a big shelf of sports trophies and a wicker basket filled with stuffed animals. Most days I kept the door closed and tried to ignore the room’s existence. But every so often (more than I care to admit) I’d come inside and sit on her giant beanbag chair and let myself remember when we were all still here and still acting like a family. I’d remember how Colleen and I used to squeeze into the little twin bed and Maggie would plop between us and we’d laugh ourselves silly reading Good Night, Gorilla .

My phone buzzed again.

The same UNKNOWN CALLER.

“Dad? Is this better?”

Now her voice was clear. Now she could have been sitting right beside me, changed into her Lion King pajamas and ready for bed.

“Maggie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dad. Everything’s fine.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m home. I mean, my apartment. In Boston. And everything is fine.”

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe she didn’t know where to start. And neither did I, really. How many times had I imagined this moment? How many times had I rehearsed this conversation while standing in the shower? Now it was finally happening, and all I could think to blurt out was: “Did you get my cards?”

Because God I sent this kid so many cards: birthday cards, Halloween cards, just-because cards. Always with ten or twenty dollars of pocket money and a little note.

“I got them,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to call for a while now, actually.”

“I’m so sorry, Maggie. This whole situation—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. All right.” I felt like one of those hostage negotiators on Rescue 911 . My number one objective was keeping Maggie on the phone, keeping her talking, so I pivoted to a safer topic: “Are you still at Capaciti?”

“Yeah, I just had my three-year anniversary.”

Maggie was so damn proud of that job. She was hired by Capaciti right around the time our troubles started—and long before anyone had ever heard of the place. Back then it was just one of a thousand Cambridge start-ups promising to change the world with a new top secret technology. Now they have eight hundred employees spread across three continents, and they’d just run a Super Bowl commercial with George Clooney and Matt Damon. I read everything I could find about the company, always searching for a glimpse of my daughter’s name, or at least some insights into her life and career.

“Those new Chevys look amazing,” I told her. “As soon as the prices come down—”

She cut me off midsentence: “Dad, I’ve got some news. I’m getting married.”

She didn’t pause to let the information sink in. She just started spilling the details like she couldn’t hold them back anymore. Her fiancé’s name was Aidan. He was twenty-six years old. His family was hosting the reception at their home in New Hampshire. And all the while I was stuck on the first bombshell.

She was getting married?

“… And in spite of everything that’s happened,” Maggie continued, “I’d really like you to be there.”