Her mother was not accustomed to noise. She spent all her time upstairs, in that little bedroom, and only came out when we were all gone, including, especially, the children. The signs she was there – the errant piece of laundry, the forgotten dish in the sink, the occasional quiet step above my head – stopped capturing my notice until I forgot all about her.

           When we moved, we sold the house, packed our things, and left. As the new house began to be filled, to be lived in, my wife realized that we had forgotten something.

          We did not go back for her, as the new owners likely wouldn't notice her either.