a silver-framed photograph of the four of us standing in front of a traction engine. I walked over and picked it up. In it, I looked about nine years old and Edward looked about seven. My parents were in the center of the picture; I was holding my father’s hand and Edward was holding my mother’s. We were all smiling, just like a fully functioning normal family. I replaced the photograph on my mother’s dressing table, next to a dish of potpourri, and drifted to the bay window behind it. Pushing back the net curtain, I saw my mother’s navy blue Volkswagen Polo approaching the house and turning
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