Kevin walked back into the dining room carrying a dish towel wrapped around something flat, with a small white envelope pinned beneath his thumb. He did not look at anyone. He stopped beside my chair, unfolded the towel, and laid it on the table. It was one of my mother’s china plates, split clean across the middle, mended with clear glue that had yellowed along the seam. Nicole saw it and burst into tears.

“I found it behind the soup tureen,” Kevin said quietly. “With this.” He placed the envelope in my hands. My name was written across the front in Nicole’s careful handwriting. “Count the plates, Mom,” he said. “Then read it.” Eli stared at his lap. Nobody breathed. I slid my thumb under the flap and unfolded the letter, and the very first line made my hands shake harder than they ever had.