We celebrated Lily’s tenth birthday in my garden. Patricia brought lemonade. Terrence grilled corn and washed every dish before leaving. Lily arranged the chairs herself and made sure there was one beside mine for her father. When the sun slipped behind the maple tree, she brought out the old framed wedding picture with a new photograph tucked behind it: the three of us smiling in front of her dad’s modest apartment.
“It’s two houses,” she said. “But people can still come to the same table.”
We ate cake under a string of small lights. Nobody promised wealth or borrowed anyone’s reputation. A summer breeze moved through the open gate, and the wedding photograph rested safely on the mantel inside. The scar on its frame remained, but the glass was clear, and we could see all three faces laughing.
