At first it looked like an ordinary collection of scraps: a restaurant receipt folded into a square, a small envelope addressed to our home, and a drawing of our kitchen with three chairs around the table.

One chair was crossed out in pencil.

I sat on the stool opposite my daughter and tried to work out when she had started thinking of her father as someone who might not come home.

“Where did these come from?” I asked.

“The receipt was in Dad’s jacket when I was looking for my permission slip.

I didn’t go into his things on purpose.” Grace touched the envelope.

“And the mail came while you were at the dentist.