For the next hour, Poppy repeated stories I’d told her about Anna: the time she put flour in her hair to pretend she’d turned old, the time she adopted a bird with a broken wing, the time she cried at a movie about a dog and then insisted she hadn’t cried at all.

Evelyn listened as if collecting treasure.

By the end, Poppy had laughed herself tired and Evelyn had learned more about my daughter than any photograph could have taught her.

After Poppy went to bed, I thanked my sister.

“For what?”

“For never telling me it’s time to move on.”

Evelyn set down her teacup.

“From Anna?