I told her people could care for her without replacing one another.

I told her she had no reason to be ashamed.

She fell asleep before we reached home.

I carried her inside, put her down, and waited until she was settled before I cried.

That became another notebook entry.

I wrote it for myself, not because I imagined it being read into a microphone fifteen years after Elena left.

On Sunday evenings, we used the kitchen table to check the week ahead.

A permission slip could hide beneath a spelling sheet, and somebody always remembered a costume after I thought the list was finished.