In the sitting room, Renata asked for her pink blanket.

It lay folded on the end of the sofa, its small hand-sewn corner worn soft from years of being carried from bed to chair and back again.

I spread it across her lap and sat beside her.

“What else did Grandma tell you about the envelope?”

Renata picked at a loose thread.

“She said grown-up papers can make people go away.”

“Who did she say might go away?”