“I have to go. Make sure someone calls me at the Bouchers’ when she gets home.” I went back up the stairs to tell my mom I was leaving. The door was shut. I knocked. “I’m going now, Mom.” She didn’t answer.

Marie came out into the hallway on her way downstairs. “It’s better to leave her alone.”

“I’m only telling her I’m going.” I wanted to kick and stamp the door. I went back into our empty room and picked up Ellen’s folder, sifting through the sheets to find the green circles from Miss Le Blanc: the floating self-portrait, the family minus parents, a series of studies of a stag, just the face and antlers, all done in different gradients of black pencil shading. They weren’t childish, sweet drawings; they were stark, detached, and sad. I knew Ellen must be completely exceptional in her class. I took the note, brochure, reference, and drawings. Mom needed to know. I walked back to her room and knelt on the rug, sliding each of them under her door, before leaving.

Our house on the mountain was a split-level. There were four floors, with small staircases of five steps between each of them. We had four bedrooms. My mother’s room, Bea’s box room, and the one I shared with Ellen and Marie were on the same floor. Bea’s was very small, and right next to my mother’s. Thomas had a large room on the very top floor. I loved the house and the woods all round it. We’d moved to the mountain after Ellen was born. Before that we rented a house in Ardmore. I don’t think my father ever felt at home on the mountain. He was different from the other dads up there. It wasn’t just his job; he had never been to school after fifth class, the same as our fifth grade. He said that in Ireland this was common for children reared on farms. They were expected to work. And my dad worked harder than anyone I knew. But he never seemed to be able to save.