like a paperback with its cover folded nearly in half. From an inner pocket, he removed a battered brown envelope held together with clear tape.
He hesitated before opening it.
That hesitation affected me more than anything else.
Until then, part of me had still been waiting for some ordinary explanation. A mistake. A coincidence. Something embarrassing but manageable. My mother had lived eighty years; of course there were photographs I had never seen. Of course there were people I did not know. Families collected odd fragments over decades.
But