Across the inside, in Noah’s uneven handwriting, were the words FRONT ROW FOR MOM.

He had written them after making us rehearse his birthday procession through the dining room.

The procession involved a plastic dinosaur, a paper trumpet, and strict instructions about where I should sit.

Ethan had laughed when Noah made me move one chair closer.

That had been less than twelve hours earlier.

I ran my thumb over the folded edge.

Ethan stood behind me.

“He made that yesterday.”