On Mother’s Day, a little girl appears at my door holding my son’s backpack—revealing a truth I was never meant to find.

“Like a real dinner?”

“Real plates,” I said.

“Too much food. Probably dry rolls.”

Grandpa Joe rubbed his cap between both hands.

“Sarah doesn’t make friends easily.”

“Neither did Randy,” I said.

“He collected people quietly.”

That Sunday, I set three places at my kitchen table.

Then I set one more — a bowl with dry cereal, and continue reading …