At breakfast, Jeremy avoided my eyes, but he pushed another note toward me.

I found Nora in Dad’s old file box.

An address was written underneath.

I did not ask how long he had carried that information alone.

I simply got into my car.

Nora lived forty minutes away in a brick duplex. She opened the door cautiously, like someone who had stopped expecting good news.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

I held out Jeremy’s note. “My son spoke for the first time in eight years last night.”

Her expression changed immediately.

“Jeremy?” she said quietly.

She stepped aside. “Come inside.”

We sat together at her kitchen table. I told her about the dinner, Jeremy’s accusation, the notes, and Janice overhearing the argument.

When I finished, Nora did not begin by explaining the house.

Instead, she opened a folder and placed a faded child’s drawing in front of me.