I live in a tiny two-bedroom apartment where the paint peels off the walls and the fridge hums louder than the TV. My one bright spot in all of it is my daughter, Lucy. She’s three — sharp as a tack, with a giggle that could brighten the darkest night. She has her daddy’s eyes, but not a trace of his presence.

Mike left when Lucy was just eleven months old. I’ll never forget that night. He sat me down, but wouldn’t look me in the eye. He just kept shaking