Caroline kept them in a wooden box on her desk, unopened until she had finished her homework for the week.

Then, on Friday evenings, she would read them in her room with the door open.

She never showed them to me, and I never asked to see them.

“She’s working at a community clinic in Richmond now,” Caroline told me one evening as we watched the local news.

“Is she well?” I asked.

“She says she is. She’s taking classes to renew her nursing certification.”

“That’s good, Caroline.”

“Yes,” Caroline said, her eyes fixed on the television screen. “She’s trying to fix her own life.”

Ten months later, we were packing the trunk of my Buick.

Caroline had been accepted into the engineering honors program at Virginia Tech.

The summer sun was hot on our shoulders as we carried cardboard boxes down the front steps of our home.

“Is that the last of the books?” I asked, wiping my brow with the back of my hand.

“Just one more box,” Caroline said, coming out the front door carrying a small plastic crate with her left arm.