Rosie had taken her sister’s other hand.

“For most of our lives,” Tess went on, “we didn’t understand some things.

We didn’t understand why our dad never got married.

We didn’t understand why he worked seventy-hour weeks, or why his boots always had holes in them while we somehow always had new sneakers on the first day of school, or why in twenty-two years he never once took a vacation.” Her voice caught for the first time.

“We found this two weeks ago.

It was in an old cigar box in the back of his closet — folded up underneath three little hospital name bracelets and every crayon drawing the three of us ever made him.