I bent to pick it up, because not one person standing inside that house moved to do it.

And then, at the far end of the hall, my mother, Diane Larsen, arms folded across a cream cardigan.

“Grant called us last night,” she said. “He told us you found some messages and wouldn’t hear his side.”

The pieces slid together so fast that my stomach turned.

“You talked to my husband,” I said slowly, “before you decided whether your daughter and your grandchildren had somewhere to sleep.”

Her chin lifted, defensive.