Dad stood beside me.
“Your mother painted that.”
“She had terrible handwriting.”
“She did.”
“She would have hated this.”
“She would have laughed.”
The music box still worked.
When Dad wound it, a thin melody rose into the quiet room.
He sat in the chair by the window.
I sat on the floor with my back against the bed.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Outside, the lake moved gently beneath the afternoon sun.
Then Dad said, “I’m sorry I let you think you were unwanted.”
I looked at him.
“I never thought that.”
“You did.”
“Sometimes.”
He nodded.
“Vanessa made you feel like an outsider.”
“She made everyone feel like they had to earn a place.”
“I should have stopped it.”
“You tried.”
“Not enough.”
“No,” I said. “But you’re trying now.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I thought protecting the family meant keeping it together.”
“Sometimes keeping it together means telling the truth.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He lifted his eyes.
