handwriting was crooked.
She had drawn Mom with purple hair because apparently we had owned only a handful of crayons.
Melissa laughed through her tears.
“You kept this?”
“Of course.”
She turned another page.
A paper flower.
A photograph of the three of us wearing matching pajamas.
A note I had written apologizing for breaking a lamp after blaming the cat.
Then she found a tiny folded card she had made as a teenager.
There was nothing expensive in the scrapbook.
Most of it was paper.
Some of it was
