When I was twelve, my father took me to the first hotel he owned.

The lobby smelled of fresh paint and coffee, and a woman at the front desk was trying to check in a family whose reservation had been lost.

Dad did not scold her.

He set down his toolbox, called the neighboring motel, and found the family rooms.

Then he apologized to the receptionist for leaving her alone during a busy hour.

“People will forgive a mistake,” he told me afterward.