And it turns out I don’t have to say anything anyway, because Glory has plenty to say.

We work together all afternoon, and instead of offering me more peppermints, she feeds me little bites of information about my mother. Just tiny morsels. But they’re things I never knew. And I gobble them up because I’ve been hungry for so long.

Did I know she loved cats? “There was a little stray hanging around that summer. An orange tabby. Nicki named it Nacho and fed it every day. Scraps from her own meals.”

Don’t I remember what an ear she had for music? The way she was always singing. How she used to compose original melodies in her head and walk around humming them to herself under her breath. “Never whole songs,” Glory explains. “Just the most beautiful little snippets. It used to drive me kind of crazy, but God, I missed it so much. After . . .”

Did anyone ever tell me she was obsessed with mint chocolate chip ice cream? The bright green color. The taste of it. The cold on her tongue. “Every Sunday afternoon that summer, we took you to Mitchell’s Dairy, out on the highway. It was our little ritual. Just the three of us. They had these cows in a pen right beside the shop. So you could pet the cows who made your ice cream.” Glory laughs. “Nicki thought that was the coolest thing. She always made sure you told them thank you.”

And just for a second, I have a flash of actual memory. My hand reaching through a wooden fence to rub the soft head of a white cow.

These are the kinds of stories Dad never shares, but Glory talks about my mother almost like she’s still alive. Like she’s just in the next room, maybe, and she’s going to walk in any minute and catch us telling funny stories about her. And we’ll be in so much trouble.

“That whole summer was just incredible,” Glory says. “There’s never been another one like it. But . . . sometimes . . .” She freezes for a moment. Then she shakes her head. Takes a deep breath. She’s folding a stack of printed mailers with astonishing precision. The creases are impeccable.

“Sometimes what?” I ask.

Glory stops folding. She picks up a bent paper clip and fiddles with it for what seems like forever before she finally says, “I don’t know.” She puts down the paper clip and gathers up the folded mailers. “It was a long time ago.”

And that’s the first thing she’s said that doesn’t seem honest.

“Please,” I say. “Tell me.”