Knox gave a low growl from his rug by the hearth but stayed sitting while I walked down the unheated hallway.

My mother stood on the porch holding a blue glass casserole dish wrapped in a damp kitchen towel.

My father stood two steps behind her on the top step, his coat collar turned up against the salty draft off the river.

“I made green bean casserole with the crunchy onions you used to like,” my mother said.

Her voice was a soft murmur, and a single tear ran down her cheek into her wool scarf.

She stepped past me into the living room before I invited her in.