At seventy-eight, my hands weren't as steady as they used to be, but my memory remained sharp. I sat at my desk surrounded by fifty years of photographs, journals, and letters, trying to make sense of the story I needed to tell.

"Mom, you've been at this for six hours," Hope said, appearing in the doorway with tea and concern. "You need to take breaks."

"I can't. There's so much to say, and I don't know how much time I have left to say it."

"You have plenty of time."

"Maybe. ...