“I think you did,” I replied gently.

“But maybe you didn’t understand what it would feel like for me.”

She nodded.

It wasn’t a perfect reconciliation.

We still had years of habits to unlearn.

But I no longer needed perfect to recognize sincere effort.

After she left, I put the album back on the shelf beside Frank’s wooden frame.

Our family story was no longer one fixed account controlled by the loudest voice.