Every Friday at 6 p.m. my daughter called me without fail, and the one week my phone stayed silent I drove to her house and heard a sound from upstairs that turned our quiet Tennessee life into something I still can’t fully talk about

there—in the sunlight through the window, in the warmth of Sunday dinners at Joyce’s table, in the connections that even loss can’t break.

Back in the garage, Amelia finished wiring the lamp. She plugged it in and flipped the switch. Light flooded the workspace.

“I did it!” she shouted. “It works!”

“You certainly did, sweetheart,” I said. “Your mom would continue reading …