There is a picture of Amelia on the fridge. Her with a shy smile and a shaggy haircut, her face round and chubby. It’s mounted on a rectangle of pink foam, covered in heart stickers placed messily by a 5-year-old hand. It’s been hanging there since the day she brought it home from kindergarten, just another piece of the detritus of childhood. But the other night, I caught a glimpse of it in the dimly lit kitchen, and I realized, that magnet is now a historical document. Its heart stickers are coming unstuck, the photo is smudged with … who knows what. And that little girl is gone, gone.