Early the next morning, as Ivy and I prepare the dough for the bread, I spend more time searching her face than I do making breakfast.

Several minutes pass that way until finally Ivy speaks with her gaze still on the dough she’s kneading. “I guess from all the attention that he told you who I was.”

Abandoning my dough, I lean toward her. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re my aunt?”

She sighs. “What difference would that have made?”

I gape at her. “You’re family. My mom’s ...