Every screw and measured distance was an attempt to say welcome home without overwhelming my daughter with words.

Tessa stopped by carrying containers of soup and a packet of photographs from college.

She said she wanted Chloe to have choices about which memories to keep close.

In one photograph, Chloe stood on a beach in a yellow sweatshirt with the wind lifting her hair.

She was laughing at something beyond the frame.

“I want her to look like that again,” I said.

Tessa studied the picture.