I flew back to Portland on Thursday. My husband picked me up at the airport. He took one look at me and did not ask. I went into our bedroom and I closed the door and I cried for two hours. Not because my parents had said the cruel thing. But because I had asked a question I did not understand and gotten an answer I was not ready for, and because my mother — my mother, who had packed my lunches, who had driven me to soccer for eleven years, who had held my hair when I threw up after every single orthodontist appointment of my childhood — had been carrying a dead daughter in her heart for thirty-six years and had never once told me. I thought about my biological grandmother in Arizona. I thought about the face on the screen, the jawline, the crease between the eyebrows. I thought about flying to Prescott. And then I thought, for the first time, about not flying to Prescott. About calling my mother instead. About asking her to tell me about Mary Beth. About everything I had never asked.