Theo’s room had the dark, wood-paneled charm of a men’s club. It felt like there should be mounted stags’ heads staring down in disapproval and cigar smoke swirling overhead. The walls were covered in framed photographs that looked like expensively styled snapshots. Theo and Caro sitting on a sailboat. A pair of kids on skis—Theo and Juliet, I figured. Teddy crawling across a manicured lawn with a teddy bear dangling from his mouth by one furry ear.

“That’s me!” Teddy said.

A carved wood Jacobin chair with a tall back sat in front of the window, next to a small reading table. Otherwise, the room was disturbingly normal with its chest of drawers and opulently carved bedside tables. It wasn’t monastic, exactly, but it wasn’t fussy either.

“Does Daddy know you jump on his bed like that?” I quietly opened a drawer and found white undershirts. Another contained boxer briefs. I drifted across the room before checking out the closet. Inside were boring rows of shirts, suits, and shoes, all open shelving. So. Much. Space. I peered through the open door of the bathroom to find a whirlpool tub. The contents of the medicine cabinet had nothing more sinister than face wash and shaving oil.

“Sure. But I can’t jump on Mama’s bed.”

After Teddy was born, it was clear Caro was sleeping in her own room, but I’d never seen it. I’d been given exactly one full tour of the house, and that was three months after the wedding. Caro and I started seeing more of each other after our mother died.

Teddy leaped off the bed, thudding against the floor. There was no carpet in Theo’s room.

I heard frantic footsteps downstairs. “Is everything okay?” Gloria called.

“It’s fine!” I shouted back. To Teddy, I said, “Wow, I didn’t know frogs could be so loud.”

Teddy smiled. “You have to jump with me. Ready?”

We hopped out of the room. He bounded ahead of me, his leaps muffled by the carpeting in the hallway. He stopped in front of a closed door. “Mama’s room.” He touched the knob, but he didn’t turn it.

“Let’s go inside.”

“No.” He shook his head firmly, suddenly the world’s tiniest martinet. “Can’t go in.”

I crouched down next to him so we could talk, frog to frog. “Why not?”

“Mama,” he said. There was an ocean of heartbreak in those two syllables, a longing and a sorrow that brought tears to my eyes. Keeping the room sealed was like a magic spell, one that promised if everything were done right, Mama might one day return.

“I miss her too,” I told him.

His head hung forward so much that his chin touched his chest. He bumped the crown of his head against the door.