The first thing my daughter said when I came home early was, “Careful, Dad. It’s wet. I’m almost done.” She was twelve years old, kneeling on our entryway tile with a scrub brush in her hand. In the next room, four women were drinking wine

is Greg Holloway.

I was forty-one years old and worked as a regional sales manager.

My job required frequent business trips between Plano and Houston.

I’d always believed I was doing everything possible to provide a comfortable life for my family.

My daughter, Maya, had lived primarily with me since my divorce from her mother, Kelly.

Kelly worked at a hospital in Phoenix.

We’d agreed Maya would stay in Plano so she could continue attending the same school and remain close to her friends and grandmother.

When I remarried, Maya was ten.

My new wife, Tiffany, seemed organized, thoughtful, and good at managing a busy household.

She also had a daughter named Hailey, who stayed with her father and visited us on alternate weekends.

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