storage.
There was Dad holding Theo on his shoulders at a county fair.
Mom blowing out candles on her fortieth birthday cake.
The four of us on a beach vacation, sitting on an old blanket with a cooler of homemade sandwiches.
On the last page was a photograph of my parents standing in front of the Lantern Foundry shortly after the purchase.
The roof was damaged.
Windows were boarded up.
Weeds grew through cracks in the pavement.
Dad held a set of keys.
Mom stood beside him, smiling like they’d won the lottery.
Theo placed the album on the table.
“I found this in a box at my apartment,” he said.
“I kept looking at it and wondering when I started acting like these pictures weren’t good enough.”
Mom touched the photograph with one finger.
“We were so frightened that day,” she said.
Dad chuckled.
“I was frightened.
Your mother was making renovation plans before we’d even unlocked the door.”
Theo looked at Dad.
“I thought making something of myself meant never looking unsuccessful.
Camille’s family made me feel like everything I’d worked for was ordinary.
Every time I tried to keep up, I felt farther behind.”
Dad nodded.
“You were measuring yourself against somebody else’s scoreboard.”
“I know.
And I made you both pay for it.”
Mom squeezed his hand.
Theo continued.
“I don’t expect you to forget what happened.
I just want to become someone you don’t have to worry about at the next family gathering.”
It was the first apology he’d given that didn’t contain an excuse.
I looked at him for a long time.
Then I moved my chair closer.
We talked until the sun went down.
Not everything was repaired that afternoon.
But for once, nobody pretended it was.
PART EIGHT — A DIFFERENT KIND OF CELEBRATION
The following spring, the Lantern Foundry hosted its first community open house under the new management arrangement.
Instead of an invitation-only gala, Dad and the venue team organized a waterfront dinner to recognize the craftspeople, apprentices, and longtime employees who had helped keep the building alive.
There were simple white tablecloths, locally prepared food, and flower arrangements donated by a neighborhood garden club.
No society photographers.
No reserved tables for investors.
No complicated seating hierarchy.
Mom wore her navy dress again.
I helped fasten the silver barrette above her ear.
“Are you sure you want to wear this?” I asked.
She studied herself in the mirror.
“Why wouldn’t I? I like this dress.”
For the first time since the wedding, she sounded completely comfortable saying so.
Dad wore the same charcoal suit.
The same repaired cuff.
The same old shoes, carefully polished.
When we entered the ballroom, several employees greeted him by name.
But he didn’t walk toward the stage.
He walked toward a long table near the windows, where a young apprentice and her grandmother were looking for seats.
“Is this table reserved?” the grandmother asked.
Dad smiled.
“Not tonight.
Sit wherever you’re comfortable.”
Theo arrived a few minutes later carrying a plate of pastries he’d made himself.
He placed them on the table, pulled out a chair for Mom, and sat beside her.
I watched him ask about her week.
He listened to the answer.
He wasn’t checking his phone or looking across the room to
