I had lived there until I was fourteen.

Then my parents died in a car accident, and I entered foster care. Strangers packed our  home while I sat in a county office holding a trash bag filled with clothes.

I never returned.

“I knew a guy,” I said. “Quiet. Dark hair.”

“Carl,” Mr. Baron murmured.

“No.”

The denial came too quickly.

The Carl I remembered had been a shy young man who lived with his grandfather and repaired bicycles behind their house.

The man I married laughed easily and argued enthusiastically about books.

Mr. Baron sat in the chair across from me.

“Carl lost both parents when he was seven,” he said. “Arthur raised him.”

I remembered Arthur’s rough hands and gentle voice.

I remembered bringing him soup when he had the flu because my mother believed no one should eat alone while sick.