“Shh, shh. Your mom will be here soon to feed you. We’re here at the beginning. I’ll paint a bottle of milk for you. I will not throw it. But I left my white crayon under the table. If we can’t take a drive, how about a little walk? I wake. Startle. She has been fed. Grown up. Hated me. Loved me again. I am old. Dying. And she is still here. This is a forgiveness I never gave my own father. But—Georgette! I close my eyes. Georgette.”