Patricia’s name.

I flipped it face down.

“You’re not going to answer it,” Helen said.

“Nope.”

The baby drifted off against Helen’s chest, one arm dangling.

She rocked him without any chair to rock in.

I went in for the blue knit baby blanket and spread it over him.

That was when I spotted the silver frame in the travel bag, wrapped up in a dish towel.

I stood it on the wooden mantel.

Walter in his gardening hat, squinting into the camera.

Out on the deck, Helen said, “We’re home at last.”

The little silver picture frame caught the final bright ray of afternoon sun on the wooden mantel.