“I was wondering if you’d like to see some pictures of when I was growing up,” she said. “Unless they might upset you.”

Donna smiled. “I’d love to see them. Photographs are wonderful gifts. They lend a permanence to life.”

It was the perfect answer.

After Annie cleaned up the kitchen and Donna had gone back to the rocker and the quilt, Annie retrieved the album, sat on the end of the sofa that was closest to her, and gingerly opened the cover.

First were Annie’s baby pictures, which evoked bittersweet smiles. A tear. Or two.

Then the outside of the house where she’d been raised, followed by shots of Annie’s first, second, third birthdays; others of her riding her little tricycle; trying to rake leaves; showing off the matching dresses her mother had made for her and her first American Girl doll. Annie had forgotten how much she’d loved those dolls; every year her dad had given her a new one on her birthday, and her mother had made extra clothes. When Annie and Donna reached the first-day-of-school photos, Annie pointed out the red tartan plaid skirt. Donna commented that her mother had been talented.

Moving ahead, they laughed at the images of the school Thanksgiving play when Annie had played a Wampanoag (Annie said that Lucy would have loved it!), and of her junior high graduation when her hair was cut to look like Princess Diana’s, even though it was black and not blonde. And then there were photos of their vacations on the Vineyard: beach scenes, lighthouses, the historic, up island sheep farm that had been in the same family since 1762. But missing from the collection were pictures of Bob and Ellen Sutton, which hadn’t felt strange to Annie until then. But her father had always snapped the photos, and her mother had said she was “camera shy.”

Donna seemed to enjoy looking through the album; several times she placed her fingers on Annie’s image and made small sounds as if she were laughing. But when they reached the pictures of Annie and Brian’s wedding, Annie realized that Donna had not been laughing; she’d been crying.

“Oh!” Annie said, quickly closing the album. “I’m so sorry. I thought you said . . .”

Donna waved her away, and said she needed to go back to bed, that she was just tired again. But she said she’d like to see more on another day.

Annie helped Donna into the bedroom, waited in the hallway while Donna used the bathroom, then walked beside her, assessing her balance, until she got into bed. As Annie reached to turn off the light, Donna grasped Annie’s arm, pulled her toward her, and kissed her cheek. Then she closed her eyes and smiled. It was seven o’clock.