I steadied myself against the open car door and read the word on the tab a second time, because the first time my mind refused to accept it. It was not my name. It was not Trevor’s. Written in careful black ink across the folder that belonged to my private records was a single word. Fairview. The very place Colleen had told her sister I would be living before Christmas.

She saw me read it. Whatever composure she had been wearing all morning slipped from her face like a mask coming loose. “Gwendolyn, it isn’t what you think,” she started, but I was already lifting the folder from the driveway, my hands steadier than they had been in years. Inside was not a Medicare form or an insurance page. It was an admission form, filled out in her handwriting, with my name at the top and a signature line she had been saving for last.