An American Indian elder described his own inner struggles this way: "Inside of me there two dogs. One of the dogs is mean and evil. The other dog is good. The mean dog fights the good dog all the time." When asked which dog wins, he reflected for a moment and replied, "The one I feed the most."—Native American Proverb.

The occasional convex shape traveling the dark wall as a shadow without destination. Sleepy patterns trailing the expanse of exposed skin and settling upon her lower back. These are the moments that make me reconsider everything. These are the moments that make it so much harder to lie and forget.

Lie and forget.

Lie and forget.

Lie and forget.

Forget and lie.

Lie to forget.

Lie to forget.

Forget to lie.

I move the fingers used to silence Aiden in the night and touch her as though I deserve access to something so beautiful, tracing every part of her like a map that leads to another circumstance, a moment’s quick decision that ends in her favor, a plan that hasn’t been sewn into possibility under Rebecca’s watchful eyes, options that I’ve been trained to believe no longer apply to me.

Sacrificing humanity in order to obtain the one part of me that made me human.

She feels me even in her sleep, and slowly fractions of naïve blue are revealed to me and fractions of my heart segment and break apart like slowly shattering ice. A smile meant to do nothing but uncontrollably exist rushes to assure me that she feels the same way—as though she could ever know the way I feel.

We are not the same at all.

Lie.

“Ash…”

“Spence.”

“What time…what time is it?”

“It’s late or maybe early. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Lie and forget.

“It’s ok. I’ve been meaning to start waking up at…” she says, reaching for her watch, “4:00 in the morning.”

“Oh yeah?” I laugh, and it sounds like Rebecca.

“Absolutely.”

“In that case, you’re welcome.”

She smiles, and I do my best to memorize the moment, attempting to stop the etching of what was to come. I can see the beginning of permanence on her skin like a haunting, crawling, memorial of choice. No one will believe me when I try to explain. No one can show compassion when confronted with the reality of my lies. No one will understand that my daughter is worth causing so many people such immense pain. Not when she’s safe in her father’s arms. Not when my purpose is a greedy, expectant thing with a mind of its own in the shape of someone else’s cold wife.