The bread was warm between us, and the butter was melting too quickly in the heat of the small kitchen. I cut another slice for her and passed it across, the knife scraping softly against the plate. She spread it slowly, as though dragging out the moment, and then she set the knife down and looked at me in a way she had not looked at me in years.

“Juliana,” she said, her voice lower now, less sharp than it used to be. “There is something I must say, and I do not know if I will find the ...