“Your dad,” I said.

“He always knows what to say.”

PART 11

We returned home on Tuesday to find the workshop exactly as I’d left it, except for a small box on the back step.

Inside was a wooden picture frame Frank had made from cherry wood, sanded until it felt soft beneath my fingertips.

He’d placed one wedding photograph inside: the instant I reached Marcus at the altar, Frank’s hand resting over mine.

At the back of the frame he had carved: Always welcome.