She’s wearing green scrubs and ratty sneakers on the day she meets Andrew. Her face is devoid of make-up and her hands reek of antiseptic while she flirts with him in the elevator. They make out on the first date and she invites him in on the second; she’s surprised when he asks for a third because she’s a bit cynical about these things. Months pass before she considers meeting his family.

Andrew always kisses her hello and goodbye, "I want you to meet my daughter today."

She changes her blouse three times and arrives an hour late for dinner.

"She doesn’t like me, Andrew."

"She doesn’t know you. It’ll get better, I promise. Just be patient."

"I have been. Or at least, I’ve tried to be, I’m not that great at waiting for things. You of all people should know that."

He smiles and remembers their first date, while she frowns and remembers a cool hello. She picked Michelle up from school that afternoon.

"She won’t even let me braid her hair Andrew. She’d rather wait for you to get home than—"

He lays down the newspaper and rubs a reassuring hand against her forearm. She feels like one of his patients.

"Michelle will come around. I promise."

Andrew gives her a necklace for her birthday, a small amethyst stone that hangs from a delicate silver chain. He tells her he loves her, which makes getting older a bit easier to take. Michelle draws her a picture and helps blow out the candles. A week later she calls her Mommy for the very first time.

It makes getting older a bit easier to take.

Michelle asks about dying over her Cheerios that morning.

"Everyone dies." Cam’s decided not to lie to her, not even about this. "It’s just a part of life."

"Are you going to die?"

The answer is simple and yet it isn’t. How do you tell a six year old about how tenuous and fragile and unfair life can be? That she could lose you just as she lost her first mother, her real mother—only this time it’s much worse; Cam’s not just an idea formed from stories and photos sitting on a mantelpiece.

"You’re going to be late for school; we’ll talk about this later, okay?"

Andrew reassures her that it’s a normal curiosity and not the byproduct of what she brings home every day.

"And she loves you," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "That makes everything you do even more interesting. You should take her to work, explain it to her."

Cam thinks of the young boy lying on her table this afternoon after one too many beatings from his stepfather. She showers everyday at the end of her shift and refuses to step foot in the house if she can’t.

"Maybe we should go to lunch instead. Or shopping. I can get her that doll she wants—or a stuffed animal maybe?"

"Everyone calls me Cam."

"I’m not everyone Camille, not when it comes to you."

"Where were you?"

She hates the sound of her voice. It’s petulant and accusatory; it sounds nothing like her. But more than that, she hates that he’s reduced her to someone who watches the clock in her bathrobe in the middle of a work week. She should be asleep. She has court in the morning, she should already be asleep.

"I had to work late, I’m sorry. I would have called, but I thought you’d be in bed—"

He can meet her eyes when he lies now; he’s not ashamed anymore. Cam grips the belt of her robe and pulls because she wants to slap him and she will if she doesn’t do something, anything else with her hands.

"Michelle asked about you." It’s the only weapon she has left, but it never fails to hit its mark. His eyes shift to her shoulder. He’s angry now too, which isn’t fair. He doesn’t have the right—none of this is fair.

"Don’t do that. Don’t use my daughter to—"

She shouts, "Andrew!" and he falls silent. She won’t cry again. Not in front of him.

She sees Michelle every night when she closes her eyes, teary and clutching the small ceramic bear (don’t forget), begging her not to leave. Whatever resolve she’s managed to build during the day crumbles at night as soon as her head hits the pillow.

"We both love her more than we love each other." Andrew says when she gives him back the necklace. He never asks her to stay.

"But she’s not mine. No matter—" She stops mid-sentence. There’s no point to this anymore.