Miss Preston—Though, admittedly, I am at the beginning of my tenure here, you are the first person ever to flee my office. I hope you will forgive any inadvertent offense I caused by my request concerning your work. My intention was certainly not to discomfit you.

Your early departure averted the main purpose of our meeting, which the attached document should make clear. Generally, I prefer a more personal approach, but after the customary face-to-face method failed, my office could only locate the phone number of your gallerist, who promised to pass on anything we wished to send. If, as she implied, you might prefer to communicate with us directly rather than through her, please provide contact information to my secretary so that we can reach you regarding future matters concerning the work.

All best,

Lyonel

GRETE WASHINGTON: When Lillian read this letter, she became so pale that I thought she might faint. Instead of falling over, she made a noise like a puppy’s bark and jumped into the air. She said, Oh my goodness, many times. She held the letter before her eyes with shaking hands. Thirty dollars for three photographs was not very much money, but this was not important. When Lillian asked if she could give the MoMA my address and telephone number, to protect the privacy of her and Jane, her voice was light. It was the sound of hope.

When I returned from Cleveland, Lillian seemed older and more worn down, as if in the past eight weeks her body had grown a new outer layer made of tired, but when she showed me the letter, she briefly changed back into a mother I recognized. Which photos did MoMA buy? I asked. New ones, my mother told me. She’d only shown the street photos. Anything else was private, she said with such emphasis that the final word flew out like a broken tooth.

Our new subway station was on a busier street about a fifteen-minute walk from the old one, and was surrounded by different constellations of kids, dogs, abandoned cars, and busted hydrants. Trailing New Lillian to New Address, I passed not one familiar face and so did not once flinch or feel the urge to hide. Nobody looked twice at my short hair or saw my mother and shook their head. I realized how crazy Grandma’s offer had been. Live in Ohio? Where there were no corner stores, no stoops, no pigeons, and no shaved ice?

New Apartment was four stories up, which I liked, and smaller, which I didn’t. There were not quite three rooms: a medium-ish kitchen-dining-living area with just enough space for our couch and steamer trunk; a smallish bedroom; and a walk-in-closet-sized thing that Lillian had turned into a darkroom. Growing up, I hadn’t realized that the various half-rooms, nooks, and alcoves appended to our various living arrangements were never coincidental. Time after time my mother traded privacy, square footage, countertops, and a decent bathroom for darkroom space.