I had forgotten how much pleasure I once took in choosing a color simply because it made me happy.

My sister, Leah, came to stay for a week.

She brought no dramatic opinions about whether I should forgive Colton.

She brought soup, a thick stack of books with large type, and the familiar habit of asking if I wanted help rather than assuming I did.

One afternoon, she walked into the studio at the back of the house and found me tracing a drawing with a soft pencil.

“What’s that?” she asked.