There were dishes piled in the sink, wet shoes beside the door, and not one person to impress.

On Sunday morning, I checked my phone and found a photograph from Dad.

He and Frank were standing beside a finished bench in the memorial garden.

Dad had his hand on the backrest; Frank was pointing at a perfectly level corner with the proud expression of a man who had finally trained someone to respect a measuring tape.

Dad’s message read: We made this together.

I know that doesn’t change what happened.