I spent fifteen years learning how to answer the question. Harper asked it in different ways at different ages.
At five, it was simple and direct, the way five-year-olds are: “Where’s my daddy?”
At nine, it came with more weight behind it.
At thirteen, she stopped asking altogether, which was somehow worse than any of the other versions.
“Where’s my daddy?”
Every time I gave her the same answer.
“He loved you. He just wasn’t strong enough to stay.”