I still wished my aunt had spoken plainly to me while she was alive.

We would have had difficult conversations.

We might even have disagreed.

But she had left enough evidence of her intentions for me to see her clearly now: protective, imperfect, stubborn, and loving in a language made largely of documents and doors.

That night Brielle stood in the doorway of the office and asked why I was smiling.

“Someone was looking out for us,” I said.

“Great-Aunt Eleanor?”