“Because if they’ve done what I think they’ve done,” she said, “your parents didn’t just leave me there today.” And she reached inside her coat and pulled out a small envelope, worn soft at the edges.

Across the front, in my late grandfather’s careful handwriting, were two words: HOUSE DEED.

“I hid this before they came to pick me up,” she said.

“I wanted to know whether they would go looking for it.” Her voice dropped, low and certain.

“They wanted me out of the way.” I looked at that envelope in her weathered hands, and I understood, finally and completely, that my grandmother had not been caught unawares.

She had suspected.