Mum steps over the box and says to me, “Love, would you mind?” But I’m already bending down to pick it up.

“I’ll put it in the storage room, Mum.”

“Thank you, love,” she says and kisses me hard, so I feel the stamp of her trademark coral lipstick sticky against my cheek before the three of them fold themselves into Martin’s small car.

The peace of the house is a relief. I carry the box into the tiny room where Mum keeps all the stuff she can’t bear to look at every day, but also can’t bear to throw away. There are a few suitcases and a wardrobe, but mainly it’s full of Granddad’s things. His old suit jackets and coats are piled over his favorite easy chair as if he’ll pop back any moment to grab one—“Silly me, going out without a coat.” I wish he would. It’s been ten years since he died and I miss him more than I’ve ever missed Dad.

I put the box down on the floor next to a larger box that has Meg’s writing in black Sharpie on it: M & G—stuff for tip. Thank you! xxx. Typical Meg, to leave kisses even on a cardboard box. I don’t know why it’s here. Mum probably offered to get rid of it for her and forgot about it. It’s also typical of Meg to tape up a box that was destined for the dump, but then, she was fastidious about everything. Mum said carers had to be—if Grace missed a pill or an appointment it could be life-threatening. There was never any room for mistakes or forgetfulness; her life was about care and precision. I run my finger over the three kisses and remember how much I loved Meg’s hugs. Her hugs were strong and warm, they were gifts—I always felt surer of myself after one.

I slide my finger along the box until I get to a loose bit and, without thinking, start to pull the tape away. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. Some little fragment of Meg, perhaps, something that will make her feel more alive than dead. But inside there’s just the usual household detritus—an old kettle, some rusty tools, a moth-eaten blanket, two pairs of shoes with holes in the soles, a broken plastic plant pot, all jumbled together. Now I’ve cleared some space, I see that everything was resting on a sketchpad. I pull it out to have a look. Grace used to love drawing. Shamefully, I realize I don’t even know if she still does. The sketchpad is skinny; most of its pages have been torn out. There’s just one of Grace’s drawings inside. My breath catches as I realize it’s one of her special thank-yous. Grace went through a stage where she’d obsess over making thank-you cards for anyone who helped her and her mum. She’d labor over each card for days, carefully thinking through what she should draw, practicing what to write in the note again and again. They all followed a theme: a colorful scene on the front, with the name of the person Grace was thanking concealed somewhere within the picture. This one is a bunch of balloons. I imagine Grace drew it when she was much younger. In each colorful balloon she’d drawn a letter, spelling out the name “Dr. Rossi.” I run my fingertips over the drawing, imagine Grace humming, head cocked to one side and bent close to the pad as she colored in each balloon. My throat feels tight suddenly. I open the card, inside is a note with carefully joined-up writing: