The fourth choice waited until Emma was sixteen and had a license and a temper that had learned vocabulary. She found the cream dress herself, looking for a costume for a play. The cedar closet smelled like time. The dress was wrapped in a sheet. She brought it downstairs not as an accusation but as a question wearing fabric.
"Mom said it isn't a wedding dress," she said. "There's a dance. I don't want to be pretty-tragic. I want to know if wearing it is stealing."
David set down his keys. He had dreaded this closet for years and now it was only a closet. "Read me the part again."
Emma had the phone in her room like a relic that was also a tool. She played the sentence on speaker, Claire's voice smaller with age of the device but intact: It is for Emma if she wants a piece of me that is not sickness, years from now, for a dance or a play or a day she wants weight on her shoulders.
"That's you," David said. "Years from now is now. If you want the weight, wear it. If it makes you feel like a ghost's date, don't. Either way it's not a theft. She left it in your direction."