“Before Matthew died,” Josie interrupted. She hadn’t heard his name spoken aloud in years, and she felt like she had forced open a rusted lock. The entire cemetery grew brighter. The world was too green. There were too many trees. Too much grass. “Before Matthew died it was different,” Josie said.

There was a long silence, and then her aunt spoke. “Yes.”

“Before he died it was different,” she said again. She needed her aunt to say it aloud. “Right? Before, it was different.”

“Yes.” She paused. “Before, it was different.”

Josie could feel each second tick by like the clicking of a metronome in her skull, each tick an insistent question.

“Losing a child,” her aunt said, “I imagine it changes you. After the baby died, when you were living with us, she fell apart for a while.”

Josie looked at her. “What are you talking about? When did I live with you?”

“You were very young.”

Josie was silent.

“Just for a month,” her aunt said. “After the death.”

Josie could remember so much of her childhood, and the memories after the death, as her aunt called it, were too bright, too in focus. It was inconceivable that this memory had somehow slipped away. “I don’t remember,” she said.

“Well, you were only four.”

Josie’s stomach clenched, and she had to put her chin to her chest to stop the dizziness. Her aunt put her hand on Josie’s lower back. “It was only for a month,” her aunt said. “Your mother just didn’t know what to do. She was in so much pain, and you—I don’t know, I suppose it was hard to be around any child.” She paused for a moment, and Josie could hear her aunt’s heels grating against the asphalt, the birds chirping at a thousand decibels. “She bought you this stupid stuffed dog and told you to hug it when you needed her.”