There was a name written on the back, but the ink had faded where the paper had rubbed against the envelope.

I could make out only the first letter and the shape of a date.

“Maybe I’ll ask someone who knew her,” I said.

“Maybe you will.”

He said it lightly, already reaching for the bags.

I put the envelope in the inside pocket of my handbag, next to the letter.

The photograph had been an ordinary object for months.

Now I wanted to know why my mother had kept it so carefully.