I turned the sweater over with shaking hands. Inside the hem, stitched in blue embroidery thread, were two initials and a year, “N.Q. 1984.” The sleeve stitches were my own. I had been knitting it the night my mother died, and I had never been able to finish it. I had put it in a box and put the box in Beth’s car, as an act of spite.

“How did it get to Rutland?” I whispered. The woman, whose name was Tilda, pulled a second item from her bag. It was a postcard, creased and old. On the back, in Beth’s handwriting, were five lines. “Nora, I have kept this for forty years. I could not give it back, and I could not throw it away. I am sorry for everything.”