Mom stared at the sign and began to speak in a thin, steady voice. “Forty-six years ago, I worked here,” she said. “It was not a hotel then. It was a boarding house, and I cleaned rooms for the owner, Mr. Kessler. I was twenty-eight, newly widowed, with a baby at home, and I could not afford to lose that job.” Her hands tightened on the postcards. “One night, I made a terrible mistake.”

I held my breath. “What kind of mistake?” She turned toward me, tears falling. “A guest left an envelope under his pillow, and it was full of cash. I took it. I told myself it was for your milk and rent. Mr. Kessler found out and never reported me, but he fired me, and I have carried that shame ever since.” Then she pointed at a framed photo in the lobby window, and her whole face changed