That night, Josie had gone looking to kiss her mother good night and found her in Matthew’s bedroom folding his blankets and sheets. Josie had stood in the doorway and waited. She watched her mother fold Matthew’s soft blue blanket in half, and then in half again. She watched her fold his sheets with the trains, his tiny pillowcase, and when she finished, she unfolded and folded again. Josie counted—one, two, three repetitions—and finally, when she finished the fourth, her mother stopped. And then, in a moment that Josie would play over and over again, play it with such pinpoint accuracy that she knew the angle of her mother’s head, which shoulder her mother’s shirt had slid from, which fingernail’s polish was chipped, her mother turned and handed Josie her blanket, a neat yellow square—six stars, two moons, four corners. “This,” her mother said, “is yours.” Josie felt her chest burn, and she knew not only that she was transparent but that, in this one moment, her mother had branded her forever unlovable.

Now, Josie circled the crowd, carefully stepping over gravestones. There were easily one hundred people here, and they sat and stood facing the casket and looking solemn. At the edge of the white folding chairs, her two little cousins played. They were Natalie’s brother’s kids, and Josie had only seen the little one once, but the older one, Alex, she had babysat a handful of times. He sat at his father’s feet and waved at her, and she lifted her hand and then shadowed herself behind a tree.