“Not a chance.”

After lunch, we walked through the house.

In Mom’s old sewing basket, we found several notebooks with grocery lists, sketches, and lyrics she had written for Northline.

Rebecca sat on the bedroom floor and read a song Mom had drafted for my first day of school.

It was unfinished, full of crossed-out lines, and far more moving to me than any polished recording.

“Would she want me to use this?” I asked.