She stands opposite me on the kitchen side of her counter, a glob of honey dripping from a spoon that she sinks into her tea. “Talk to me.”

“There’s so much, Ruth, and I keep reading about it, but I want to remember and I can’t.” I’m not crying, even if my voice is thin, cracked. “I know Mom is here and”—I read a note from the top of every notebook page—“that you’ve probably told me dozens of times.” I read the next bit from a bulleted list I’ve made of important facts. “And I told Tate about the baby, but he already knows. He said I told him afterward.” I meet her level gaze. Ruth doesn’t lie to me. “Did I?” The question hangs in the air between us, and I watch as honey spins a golden thread from the spoon that Ruth hovers over her cup. She stares into her tea as though searching for an answer, and her silence sets my heart beating too fast.

“Ruth?”

“You did. You were confused, Claire. It was about a year afterward, and you were still recovering, trying to get your bearings. That first year was so hard for you.”

I feel myself almost physically recoil trying to picture what it was like. “It must have been so hard for Dad and for you,” I whisper. “Having to take care of me like that, to remind me about my baby.”

Ruth looks up. “That’s the thing with you, sweetheart. You always think about others. No matter what, it’s where your mind goes first.”

I’m not used to endearments from Ruth. It’s never been her style, and I never needed it from her because her love came through in the midnight hours when she comforted me from a dream, in her home-cooked meals, the dress she sewed for prom. Hearing it now is a soft blanket around my shoulders.

She continues, “And with the help of your rehab team, you figured out pretty early on how to remind yourself about your memory loss.”

My forehead wrinkles. “How?”

“First, with a note card you kept in your pocket. Your doctors suggested you keep it on you with everything you needed to know, and then they would instruct you to read it whenever you were distressed or upset because you couldn’t remember.” Ruth shrugs. “It worked and eventually you didn’t need to read about it anymore; you just knew. You’re the one who transferred that idea to your notebooks. Then again, you’ve always been such an organized and self-contained person, even when you were just a little girl.” Her voice is warm, like she’s proud of me.

I read again from my notes. “But when did I call Tate?”