“I wanted Mia to have grandparents.”

“She has me.”

“I know.”

“You wanted your parents to become the people they photograph themselves being.” The truth of it hurt.

Grandma read the note aloud. “Be good. Food is in the fridge.” She set it down. “The refrigerator,” she said quietly, “was apparently responsible for childcare.”

Andrew stood beside the window with his arms crossed. “We need to document everything.” I looked toward Mia, now asleep beneath a blanket on the sofa.