I remembered Marlene one afternoon standing by the hallway window, staring at the driveway.

When I offered to carry her suitcase she declined so abruptly that I stepped away.

I had assumed she disliked strangers.

Bell asked for any old messages or photographs from the period.

Whitney had a better memory for the family’s visitors, so I sent her the name.

She called immediately.

“Marlene was Mom’s foster daughter,” she said.

I stood still in my kitchen.