Much to my frustration, no matter how many memories flash before me, they don’t help me solve the problem of translating Russian. After spending an hour trying to understand one sentence, I close the book with a thud. The Russian Cyrillic alphabet makes it doubly hard to figure out. At this rate, translating the book will take me all summer. I even downloaded a translation app, but it skipped over words, and I started to get a headache trying to piece the broken messages together.

I need to find another way—a faster way. I shove the book under my mattress and head downstairs. Mom and Clay are watching some boring kiddie show in the family room, which means Gram is either resting or watching her own shows.

Mom gives me a sleepy smile over Clay’s tousled curls. Warmth fills me to my fingers and toes, and I smile back. It’s a good day when she cuddles Clay and actually sees me. It reminds me of what used to be.

Click. Shimmering squares float in front of me. Somehow I know that each one is a memory of what it was like before Maisie died. Instead of appearing in a map or calendar form, these are more like a game board marching across the room. Like a giant Candy Land game, each square a day full of memories.

It sort of makes sense—my brain must have automatically stored these memories in a way that made sense to a three-year-old. I reach out and touch one. It opens, and I hear Mom’s laughter, lighter than the wind chimes outside.

Click. The first square: Mom swings me up in her arms and tickles my chin. The soft scratchiness of her nails against my skin. My own shrieks of laughter echo in the air around me.

Days line up in colorful cubes. I pick one after another.

Each memory is another version of the same joy. In every one, Mom spends hours with me. She reads to me, sings to me, brushes my hair, and plays games with me. Then Dad comes home, and we go on walks and eat together. They laugh and kiss and take turns kissing me.

This autobiographical memory of mine might not be so bad. There are lots of good memories. Proof that my family wasn’t always broken. That maybe, just maybe, we can get back to the way it used to be.

I close the game board of memories and tuck it back into place. Energy pumps through me, and I hold on to the happiness still tingling in my fingers and toes. The individual memories are filed away, but the warmth and laughter still hang in the air around me.