She lifted the last object from the plastic bin: a bound and laminated five-page book constructed by Molly in third grade. She remembered how excited Molly had been about this book, about the time and effort she had put into it. As Amy had tucked her into bed Christmas Eve, Molly had pulled it out from under her mattress.

“What’s this?” Amy asked, hugging her daughter.

“Look, Mommy, look what I made for you.” Molly’s body trembled beneath Amy’s hands as she waved the book in the air.

Amy’s eyes filled with tears as she took the book from Molly, asked her what it was. Molly began to bounce up and down on the bed. “Open it, open it.”

Beneath the crumpled and crookedly taped Christmas paper lay a handmade book emblazoned in hot-pink crayon, THE WORLD’S BEST MOTHER, with a hand-drawn picture of Molly’s rendition of her mother: a small, round face with too-big eyes, yellow hair that curled and waved around the remainder of the page. The mouth opened in a smile full of all-white, all-straight teeth. The nose was just two black circles in the center of her face.

Amy told Molly it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and she meant it. Molly asked her if she liked the hair. “Don’t you think it looks just like you?”

Together they read the book. Then Amy lay down with her daughter until Molly fell asleep, secure and warm.

Now Amy curled against the back of the couch, opened the book. In zigzagging black crayon it spoke of all the “world’s greatest” things about her. Of course it didn’t mention her work in preservation, or her degree in architectural history, or her affinity for keeping the house in order, or her skill in assembling scrapbooks and baby books. Molly had only written of Amy’s love for the family.

When asked what Amy’s sports were, Molly had listed: laundry, taking me to tennis, shopping for my clothes, driving my field trips, giving me really good parties for my birthday.

Amy tossed the book on the coffee table and rubbed at her forehead, her eyes. She leaned her head back on the green toile couch with the mismatched vintage fabric pillows. Tears began as sleep crawled upon her. She reached for a couch pillow, curled up and laid her head down on it as sleep took her in slow-moving circles. She bobbed with an outgoing tide—free-floating. Warm water caressed naked skin, oyster shells tinkled—glass against goblet, toasting her with wine, celebrating her. The sand scraped her cheek, but it didn’t hurt. She floated, sank, lifted. The shells became louder, insistent in their praise.

Louder the shells sang until they became a ringing bell.