I drove to my mother’s house two days later with my phone in my coat pocket and the voice recorder running.

I want to be honest about why.

Part of me still hoped — even then, even knowing — that I had it wrong, that she would say something ordinary and I could close the box again and apologize to my brother for the panic.

And part of me, the older and colder and more clear-eyed part, already knew exactly what she would say, and wanted it recorded before she understood there was any reason to hide it.

She answered the door in her Christmas sweater and her gold cross, pleased to see me, and made tea, and I sat at the kitchen table where I had learned to be afraid and I asked her, plainly, about the comment to my daughter.

I did not accuse.