“Evelyn, remember the envelope we found in your father’s desk after he died?”

I frowned.

My father had died eight years earlier.

My mother lived in assisted living twenty minutes from my house.

After his funeral, we had sorted documents in the dining room; the process had seemed endless.

“There were receipts from a law office,” Lillian said.

“You put them in the box marked taxes because you couldn’t face looking at them.”

I remembered now.