Secrets She Left Behind. Diane Chamberlain

on the door is exactly in the right place to match up with this piece.”

      “Let me see.” I checked the plastic piece she’d screwed into place on the door. It was off just slightly. In the plastic latch and the small crooked screw and the cumbersome drill, I saw the love of a mother for her child. The love that Laurel’s stubborn depression—her stubborn mental illness—could not extinguish.

      My eyes suddenly filled with tears. “It’ll be okay,” I said. “We can just put this one a little to the right.” I considered taking the drill from Laurel’s hand and making the hole in the door myself, but it would be better if she did it. With a pencil, I marked the spot for her to drill. I held the door steady and Laurel, biting her lip in concentration, drilled the hole. When she screwed the plastic hook in place, she sighed with exhaustion, as if she’d swum a few laps in a pool.

      “Beautiful, Laurel!” I said.

      Laurel closed the cabinet door and saw that it hooked. She unhooked it. Hooked it again.