And one of his hands was held behind his back, as though he were carrying something he was not quite sure how to give me.

“Please,” he said.

“Wait.” Something in his voice made me stand still.

He came closer, and brought his hand out from behind his back, and he was holding a plain envelope.

And across the front of it, in familiar, uneven handwriting, was my name. Sally. I knew the handwriting immediately.

I had seen it on grocery lists and birthday cards and the backs of photographs for three years.