My father, who I have seen four times in two years and spoken to twice, and who has a conviction, and who lost a business he had for thirty years, and whose debts I could have paid off entirely with what his mother left me, and have not, and am not going to.

Susan, who I see about every six weeks and who brings things to the house, and who knew there was something for nine years and decided it was not her business, and who is the only person in this account I have genuinely forgiven.

Tyler, who was twenty-six and turning his keys at a graveside, and who I did not speak to properly for six months because I had decided he was on the other side, and who was not on anybody’s side and never had been.

And the thirty-four days between the twenty-sixth of September and the twenty-ninth of October, which is how long a county file on my grandmother stayed open, and which closed with one word in a box.