They belonged to us as surely as the house did.

The following morning Elise asked whether I would show her how to make the cinnamon rolls Patty loved.

It was a recipe I’d learned from my mother, scribbled onto an index card so faded that the directions seemed more like clues than instructions.

“I’m terrible at yeast,” she admitted.

“Then we’ll be terrible together the first time,” I said.

We made a mess of the counter, used too much flour, and laughed when the first batch came out lopsided.

Trevor took photographs and claimed they looked like geological samples.