We walked in stillness, and then when we arrived on the porch she picked up Mother’s book where I’d left it on the front porch table. The journal fell to the porch, open and facedown, the pages scrunched up like a woman who has fallen in her tulle party dress, the pages flattened and folded, pressed outward and inward.

She grimaced. “Sorry.”

I leaned down to pick it up, but she beat me to it, handling the book with care and brushing off the moss and leaves. A page fluttered out, yellowed and folded into a square, settling into a crack on the floorboards. We both stared, as though the paper might rise and fly away, as if it were a living thing.

“This is a picture I drew when I was nine years old.” I picked up the paper, unfolded it, and pointed to the top right corner to show Sadie the date.

“What is it?”

“It’s called A New Cinderella.” I handed it to her.

“It’s a crayon drawing of Cinderella leaving the castle with a suitcase. You even threw the shoe on the ground.” She pointed. “In the dirt. It’s like she said, ‘Forget it, I’m outta here.’”

“I hated the picture in the book where Cinderella is sitting by the fireplace ashes, crying and crying and crying. I remember thinking, You’re a grown-up, so why don’t you just pack up and leave?” I stared at the picture for a moment. “I know I wrote a story to go with it, but I don’t know what happened to it.”

“And your mother kept this and only this drawing of yours?”

“No, she has an entire box of old drawings, but this one was with her journal. I’ve tried to find the box, but I can’t. I asked Dad to look for it.”

“I wonder why she put only this one in her journal.”

“I have no idea. It was an odd collection of things she kept locked up.”

“What else?”

“This poem,” I said, and handed her the torn paper. “Well, it’s not really a poem—but I think it was meant to be, or it’s part of something else.”

She took it and read. When she looked up, she said, “Whoever wrote this loved her deeply.”

I took the poem. “I know. That’s why it’s confusing. I mean, how does a feeling like that just go away? Just leave?”

“That’s what you’re trying to figure out, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Partly.”

“Take your time. Talk to Mother and call me a hundred times a day or not at all—whatever you need. Flirt with Hutch.”

“I wasn’t flirting with Hutch. I don’t know how to flirt anymore. And trust me, he probably still cringes at my name.” I paused. “Is there a way to thank you?”