The same M I remembered from childhood birthday cards.

The same name I had spent twenty-eight years believing belonged to a woman who had simply chosen not to return.

I read the line one final time.

My daughter, Emily.

I did not suddenly know where Margaret went.

I did not know whether she intended to disappear permanently.

I did not know what Graham understood at the time.

I did not know exactly what Noah’s father believed when later ownership papers were approved.