As I tape them up, though, I hesitate. Why a wall of abandoned objects? Am I supposed to understand how a towel feels about being left on a bench? I mean, I guess I’m trying to be deep, but maybe it’s just dumb. So I think that I should add some regular family pictures, too.

I go to Grammy’s closet and pull down the picture album. Tucked into the pages, I see my report card from last year when the teacher wrote I have potential. I got in trouble for telling her I thought that was just a nice way of calling me a failure. But Grammy says it’s a compliment and that potential is like coupons in a drawer; if you leave them there, they are nothing but scraps of paper.

The pictures on the first few pages make me smile. And I wish that Grammy were the type to put pictures in frames and hang them up.

I grab the loose Halloween picture of Esme dressed in waders, holding a fishing pole, and Henry dressed as a giant fish. This was last year, and I remember him saying over and over that he was the catch of her life. She both agreed and rolled her eyes at him.

There are lots of birthday pictures, and I smile at all the lopsided cakes. It’s been a joke with Grammy that, no matter how hard she tries, her cakes are always crooked. She says love isn’t perfect and so why should a cake filled with love be? One of these will cheer my wall up.

Then I spot an older picture—I look past the cake and me ready to blow out the candles. I’m still smiling when I notice her. The woman standing behind me in the picture.

It’s the woman from the candy frame.

It’s my mother.

She was there.

My fingertips turn white as I hold the picture. I stare, feeling sick and happy all at the same time. Blinking. Is it really her?

The door closes downstairs, and Grammy calls to me, “Delsie girl! I’m home!”

Home.

By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, my chest hurts. I cannot get the air out of my lungs in order to fill them again.

Grammy is in the kitchen, and I stand in the doorway. “Whew! What a day. I think I’ll smell like Pine-Sol right up until the day I meet my maker.”

Whenever I have had a question for Grammy, a heart question—the kind of question that Esme would ask over tea—we’ve been on the couch, snuggled up together.

So it feels strange to be standing so far away. Waiting. Waiting for the courage to ask the question—or hear the answer.

“I have to ask you something,” I blurt out.

“Anything, Delsie. You know that.”

“I need the truth. You promise?”

She looks concerned. “I never lie to you. I don’t have to.”

“Did my mother come back? Come home? When I was little?”