The deeds went in a drawer.

The bank statements went in a box in the closet. She took the medical reports and put them in her own file, the one she keeps in her nightstand, because she says a person should own the paper that proves what happened to her.

Then she picked up the last thing. A small folded receipt, soft at the creases.

“I want this one,” she said.

“That one?” I’d used it to end the argument in that living room. I’d have burned it.

“It’s the only thing from that whole year that I chose,” she said. She smoothed it out flat with her thumb. “Everything else, somebody did to me. This I decided.”

She put it in the pocket of her winter coat, and as far as I know it is still there.

I didn’t ask her why. I’ve stopped needing to be told everything before I let her have it.