I thought of the hospital room where I had spent months measuring Hannah’s appetite, her sleep, her temperature.

I had asked the nurses whether she was uncomfortable.

I had asked how every test compared with the day before.

How seldom had I asked what made her laugh when I wasn’t there?

It was not that I had failed her.

I knew how hard I had loved her.

But love and fear had crowded out ordinary curiosity in those final months, and I mourned the conversations we hadn’t had.

Clara showed me a photograph on her phone.