She made a sign that said WELCOME AUNT EVIE in uneven purple letters and taped it to the refrigerator.

Evelyn stood beneath it for a long moment.

“No one’s called me Evie in decades,” she said.

“You can tell me not to,” Poppy offered.

“Please don’t.”

I served tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, the same meal Mother used to make when the rain kept us indoors.

Evelyn broke her sandwich into little squares before eating it.

I laughed aloud.