Inside was a copy of a letter she’d once written to our brother Benji.

It had been returned without a forwarding address.

The envelope was nearly twenty years old.

‘I kept it,’ she said.

‘Because I thought someday he might want to know I tried.’

I looked at the child’s handwriting and remembered Lucas breaking a granola bar into five equal pieces.

‘We were children,’ I said.

‘We shouldn’t have had to keep track of one another like that.’