We took photographs beneath the oak tree Dad had planted when I was small.

Every few minutes Mom disappeared to greet someone else.

She seemed to have recovered the ability to fill a room with noise without needing anyone’s permission.

Before the guests left, she pulled me aside.

“There’s something upstairs I want you to see.”

In the attic, she opened a cardboard box labeled FAMILY in Dad’s blocky handwriting.

Inside were old photo albums, my first science-fair ribbon, a broken watch, and a letter Dad had written during the year he became ill.

Mom had forgotten the letter existed.