It sat on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, made of thin pine, with a brass latch that had never shut right.

I had avoided it because it smelled like her: cloves, flour, and the lemon soap she scrubbed the counters with.

Every card was in her careful handwriting, with small fixes jotted in the margins.

Lucas stood next to me while I went through them.

He recognized dishes she had cooked when they were kids.

She had changed her mother’s dumpling recipe to use less butter.

Beside a chicken soup she had written *Lucas likes extra pepper*.