Inside was a copy of the photograph from the pumpkin patch, enlarged so both boys’ faces were clear.

On the back he’d written: You were there for us before you knew.

“I found it in the Murphys’ albums,” he said.

“You took the picture.”

I remembered the day.

I’d driven both boys to the farm after a school event, bought apple cider, and let them pick pumpkins too big for their arms.

It had been one of a hundred unremarkable afternoons.

“I like that we have those,” Austin said.