On the back, in her handwriting, she had written:
The first night he slept without fear.
My throat closed.
Beneath the photograph was another.
Me standing in the garage, holding a crooked shelf I had built badly, grinning despite myself.
On the back:
The first thing he made and did not abandon.
Another.
Me and Evelyn on the porch, taken by Mrs. Alvarez. Evelyn laughing. Me looking at her with an expression I did not recognize at first.
On the back:
The first time I thought he might stay even if there were nothing to gain.
My vision blurred.
I kept going.
Inside the box were dozens of photographs, notes, receipts, small objects, memories I had not known she kept.
The receipt for my boots.
A folded napkin from the diner where we had eaten after my first carpentry exam.
A pencil I used to sketch my first table design.
