Laura examined the box. Her mother had printed her name and address very carefully, and the sight of her handwriting made Laura’s tummy clench with longing for home. Shopping lists, notes to teachers, reminders in her lunch box . . . she’d seen that handwriting a million times, its careful cursive perfectly formed and unassailably legible. Her mother viewed life in black and white; information was right or wrong, feelings were justified or not, decisions were good or bad. Laura longed for that certainty because her brain felt like a kid’s kaleidoscope, one colorful emotion shifting and bleeding into another, the only constant being flux. But at the same time her mother’s way was often a very narrow path, and exploration was not encouraged.

Fetching scissors, Laura opened the box and started by pulling out a note. She opened it, saw her mother had started with, Laura, don’t forget to . . . , and put it to one side.

“I’ll read that later,” she said to Maggie. Or maybe never.

The first thing she pulled out of the box was a skirt, an item of clothing she only rarely wore. Laura sighed and held it up.

“She lives in a dreamworld where I dress like Strawberry Shortcake.” She reached into the box again. This time it was a pair of jeans, and Laura looked surprised.

“Wait, no, I take it all back. I thought I’d brought these and they’d burned. I love these jeans.” She hugged them briefly and turned back to the box with more enthusiasm.

Maggie spoke. “Mother-daughter stuff is very complex.”

Laura’s eyes met hers and she nodded without comment. Maggie watched the young woman pulling out a pair of pajamas she was clearly happy to see, a pair of shoes she’d apparently been hoping never to see again, half a dozen pairs of socks, a flannel nightgown with rabbits on it, and finally, at the bottom of the box, a giant oversized hoodie. Laura paused.

“Huh,” she said, eventually reaching in and pulling it out. Stuyvesant High School, the transferred decal wearing very thin. Laura laughed softly. “I think I wore this every single day junior and senior years, my mom was sick of the sight of it. I can’t believe she sent it.”

Maggie looked curious. “Why didn’t you bring it with you?”

Laura carefully folded the sweatshirt, giving it a surreptitious squeeze with her fingers. “Well, high school was a long time ago, it’s not like I wore it that much in college.” She shrugged. “Not even sure that girl exists anymore, she didn’t stand up for herself very much.”

There was a pause, then Maggie said, “Well, I doubt you can blame the sweatshirt for that.”

“Good point,” Laura said. “It was probably only doing its best.”

Maggie nodded. “Do you think you stand up for yourself more now, then?”