My phone lit up on the desk.

Martha’s name.

Then a voicemail icon.

I didn’t play it.

I put the brass medal back in its velvet box inside my handbag, and the transfer papers stayed open under the lamp.

Martha had the good tablecloth out, the one with the pale ring near the corner where a cup sat too long one Easter, and she was smoothing it flat when the front door opened without a knock.

Brandon came in carrying a pink bakery box and a white envelope folded once.