They belonged in a part of my history I could keep without living inside it.

That night, I took out the first letter and read the sentence about trucks again.

I pictured Daniel’s little hands, his gap-toothed smile, and the earnest way he’d held a pencil.

Then I looked around my apartment.

The curtains were my choice.

The chair was mine.

The medication beside the bed was where I wanted it.

I had not needed a man with a large house to give me permission to rest.