When the Eight-Year-Old Boy We Were Adopting Came Home With Everything He Owned in a Black Bag—Then My Missing Brother’s Watch Fell Onto His Bed

Better.

The letters helped most because they were imperfect.

One draft began:

Evie, I have started this letter six times.

Then three pages of excuses.

Another:

I keep imagining Dad answering the phone.

Dad had been dead by then.