It was a birch grove in late autumn, painted in soft blues and grays.

“This was your grandmother’s,” Claire said, easing the frame through the open back door of the car.

“It hung right over your crib in the Birch Street apartment before Frank took you away.”

I leaned into the back seat and tucked a folded blanket around the corners of the frame so the glass wouldn’t rattle against the door panel when the car idled at red lights.

“The spare bedroom gets the morning sun,” I said, shutting the back passenger door with a solid thud.