Each year, my son planted sunflowers in memory of his twin sister who passed away—then one morning, we discovered them all cut down, with a white box left behind.

enough to remember the search. Old enough to hear the adults whispering. Old enough to know Patrick blamed himself.

He’d spent that terrible night at the pond with the rest of us.

He knew about Lily.

He knew about the sunflowers.

He knew about the strip of farmland we’d sold the year before.

And apparently he knew enough about our grief to think he could continue reading …