the letters, added another, and hid everything again. My father knew she kept something there but never looked. “It was hers,” he said. “Her way of holding onto our girl.”
I sat beside my mother and asked her to tell me everything about Grace. For the first time in thirty-one years, she spoke openly about her daughter. We laughed, cried, and remembered a child none of us had been allowed to remember together.
We gathered Grace’s things and brought them into the light. Photographs went on the walls. Her stories
