“I’m sending you a picture, Pop. I just took it. Look at it!” Miles insisted.

When I opened the picture, my legs gave out. It was her—the same chin-length gray haircut I saw every morning at breakfast, the same brown purse she’d left the house with earlier, the same navy-blue coat I’d given her for her birthday last year. Worse, I could even see the tag number on the red Chevy Malibu we shared. There was no way to deny it.