The second was from 2006 and was eleven lines long and had my telephone number in it three times.

Roberta watched me read them.

“You see it now,” she said.

“See what?”

“You were forty-one years old and I was fifty-eight and I’d had that child fourteen months and she was still not sleeping through, and there’s a woman in Maine writing to me about photographs.”

Roberta’s good hand was flat on the arm of the chair. “I thought: this one’s for her, not for the girl. I was wrong about that. I’ve known I was wrong since about 2011.