“Dad thinks there is.”

I moved closer, taking the chair beside her rather than speaking from across the room.

“What do you think?”

She looked down at the yellow blanket.

“I think I want to know what I’m signing.”

It was such a modest request.

By the end of that week, I would understand how much effort they were willing to spend preventing her from having it answered.

At eight fifteen, I went to the mailbox for the crib sheets she was expecting.