Rei was leaving agitated messages on my phone. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to them. Ignoring a string of emails with all-caps subject lines, I sent one to her telling her not to worry, that I was in no danger, just “taking some time to think.” I didn’t say where I was. Then I spent an hour scrolling through videos of Nina, watching her chatter and play at various ages, forwarding and rewinding her three years of life to persuade myself that I was keeping faith with her and Rei, and even if I couldn’t speak to them, they were on my mind. I wished I could send a transcript of my thoughts, a log or spreadsheet. Hours spent thinking of: Total of boxes C1 to C16. The woman who took sudden unscheduled naps all through her pregnancy, who I used to find asleep on the sofa, or her yoga mat, even once nestled among hangers and plastic wrapping in a pile of dry-cleaning left on our bed; the baby girl I’d carried in a milk-stained sling, whose head I’d surreptitiously sniffed as I walked to the supermarket, woozily intoxicated by new fatherhood. I haven’t left you. Not in my heart. See, I have receipts.