It was a note Evelyn had written to herself during the winter after I was born.

She hadn’t addressed it to anyone.

It sat folded inside a cookbook, surrounded by recipes and grocery lists.

Today Natalie laughed at the rain, she wrote.

She thinks the sound on the window is someone tapping to come in.

I wish I could tell Warren, because he would have loved it.

But I don’t know whether he ever truly wanted to know us.

Some days I hate him for his silence.