Mason had been five then, already protective in the blunt way little boys can be.

Ellen was the one who taught Lily to plant marigolds in coffee cans on our back porch. Ellen was the one who kept Mason’s drawings on the refrigerator long after the tape curled.

Before she died, she made me sit at the kitchen table and sign papers I didn’t want to think about. A trust, she called it. Not for Brian. For the children.

“Promise me,” she’d said. “Promise me nobody uses them for money.”

I had promised.

At the time, I thought she was being cautious. By 3:18 a.m., I understood she had been afraid.