I looked from the photograph to Adrian and back again. "You're sure?"
"I know my mother's handwriting."
"Adrian, your mother died years ago."
"I know when my mother died, Mara." Not angry, just quiet in a way that scared me more than anger would have. I watched him do the thing he always did when something actually hurt, go still and controlled, like calm was something he could put on like a coat. I took the phone out of his hand.
"Do you need a minute?"
"No."
"That wasn't really a question." I got him to sit down, which felt strange, since he was usually the one managing every crisis in this house. Now it was mine to manage.
He went and found an old card, something with his mother's handwriting on it, and set it beside the photograph of the note. The formation of certain letters ma
