“Are you out of your mind? You want my mother to p…

I almost missed it. The folder was plain manila, the kind you buy in a pack of fifty from an office supply store, and it was wedged behind the hanging files in a way that suggested it had been placed there in a hurry, or placed there by someone who did not think anyone else would ever have a reason to reach that far back. There was no label on the tab, just a small pencil mark in the upper right corner.

A number two, written in handwriting that was not mine and was not Daniel’s. I recognized it anyway. I had seen that precise, small, upright handwriting on birthday cards, casserole dish notes, and the occasional sticky note left on our refrigerator.

Patricia’s handwriting. I stood in the office for a long time before I opened it. The room was quiet.

Daniel was downstairs watching a football recap. I could hear the low murmur of the television through the floor, and the late afternoon light came through the single window in long, dusty bars. My heart was already doing something strange, something fast and high in my chest, even before I saw anything.