His hair was dark, his shoulders broad, his expression half proud and half terrified.

Evelyn stood beside him holding their infant son.

Richard was so small that his entire hand fit around one of Arthur’s fingers.

“He never showed me these,” I told Elise.

“Maybe they were difficult for him to look at.”

The early journal entries were full of long workdays and small triumphs.

An elderly customer had taught Arthur to repair a broken storm window.

A neighbor had trusted him with a winter fuel bill until spring.