You press record. 'Take your time,' Mira said at the door. 'I'm not going anywhere.' There is one year she has never been told the truth about: when she was nine you left, rented a room over a bakery in the next town, worked nights, painted, and came back after fourteen months. Sofia told her you were ill and got better, and the whole family has used that word for eighteen years. The last question on Mira's page is pressed so hard the pen went through the paper: 'Was it worth it?'
The Year You Never Explained