The day after sending my RSVP, I drove to my grandfather’s house—now my house. Though I’d maintained it meticulously since inheriting it three years ago, I rarely ventured into his study. Today felt different. The study smelled of leather and pipe tobacco, just as it had when he was alive. In the bottom drawer of his desk, I found a photo album I’d never seen before. The first page showed a young girl with braided pigtails standing next to a slightly older boy, both grinning widely. James and me, ages seven and ten. Before everything changed.