“When Arthur’s people cleared out Nora’s suite,” she said, “back at the beginning, right after she passed, they went through her things very quickly.

They took anything that looked valuable.

And her photo albums, her journals, her old letters, all the keepsakes of her whole long life, they gathered up and threw into the facility disposal bin.” Sarah’s voice caught.

“One of them called it worthless paper.

I heard him say it.

Worthless paper.”

I felt a hot flare of anger in my chest, imagining it, a lifetime of a person reduced to trash by men in a hurry.

But Sarah held up her hand before I could speak.