The box was the natural and inevitable consequence of choices she had made freely, over fifteen years, and if it was terrible to watch, the person responsible for the terribleness was standing right there in the glittering gown, and it was not me, and it was not my daughters.

Chapter 23 — The Cards and the Photo

Samantha reached into the box and lifted out a small pink card, faded with age, and she held it up so the room could see it.

“Chloe made this,” she said, “when she was nine years old.” She read the child’s careful handwriting aloud.

“Please come to my birthday party, Mom.” At her table, Chloe pressed her hand to her mouth as the tears spilled over, and I saw more than one guest look away, unable to hold it.

That card had always been, to me, the single most painful object in the whole box, more painful even than the empty frame, and watching it lifted out into the light I understood why.