Look. Always look. Remember? I have to make myself look, no matter how sure I am that I know how I’ll feel when I open that box. Because one thing I know for sure after fifteen years of mothering is that I don’t have the razor-sharp memory I still seem to think I do. Looking is the only way to know if the stuff inside the box (or at the bottom of the pile) is as emotionally volatile as I’m confident it is.
