“Are you sure you want to get rid of all of these?” he asked.

I unhooked the hinged lid of the steel drum and dropped in three wooden matches until the dry newspaper lining caught.

I reached into the plastic bin and pulled out a stack of holiday cards spanning twelve years of family dinners.

On top was a glittery card my mother had sent when Lucy turned two, filled with long cursive loops praising my quiet devotion as a daughter.

“Not a bit of it was real,” I said.