Inside the box lay a thick stack of papers tied with a blue ribbon, and on top, a framed photograph of five little girls in mismatched pajamas. Diane’s hands shook as she lifted the first page. “What is this?” she whispered. Hannah stepped beside her, still smiling. “Eighteen years of birthday cards you never sent, Mom. Every one is written by me and my sisters, and every one is addressed to you. We never had your address, so we kept them.” Guests began to murmur.

Diane flipped to the bottom, and her face lost all color. Under the cards sat a legal envelope stamped by a law firm, with her name typed across it. “And this,” Hannah said gently, “is from Gordon’s attorney. He asked me to hand it to you in person.” Diane’s eyes darted toward the entrance. Then the doors opened, and a tall man in a gray suit walked in carrying a folder, followed by two women I had never seen before.