It was an official flight cancellation receipt with my mother Eleanor’s name and ticket reference number on it.

The transaction date, printed in small black type at the bottom, read April 12.

Six weeks earlier.

“She told me on Tuesday that she canceled the trip because of a sudden schedule conflict,” I said, holding the paper out to him.

Arthur cleared his throat twice and looked down at his leather shoes, shifting his weight on the arm of the sofa.

“Your mother manages the family travel accounts, Sarah,” he said softly.