“Thank you, Grandma,” she murmured, and she meant it, because she did not yet know what was inside, and because she was the kind of child who said thank you and meant it.

She began, slowly and carefully, to peel back the thin sheets of white tissue paper stuffed into the top of the bag, and the whole room, I realized, had gone quiet to watch her do it.

Some part of the family, I think, always knew.

That is the thing that I have had to sit with about all those silent watching relatives, the frozen fork and the cousin studying the carpet and the averted eyes.

They knew.