The man in the suit set the box in my hands and said, “Please, Miss Helen, look inside before you say anything.” I lifted the lid. On top lay a faded bus schedule, torn along one edge, with my name written across it in a young man’s shaky handwriting. Beneath it sat a thick envelope, a brass key on a ribbon, and a small framed photograph of a red sailboat jacket on a hanger. My knees nearly gave way.

“My name is Mr. Adler,” he said gently. “I am Caleb’s attorney, and he is waiting at the curb, because he was afraid you would not open the door for him.” I looked past the porch rail. A man in a gray coat stood beside a black car, holding a bouquet of yellow roses, his shoulders shaking. Behind me, my husband called from the kitchen, and I could not find a single word to answer him.