He was holding one of himself at fourteen in a marching-band uniform, standing beside Roger, who had his phone in his hand.

“Was that the year Dad missed the concert?” I asked.

Trevor smiled carefully.

“He came at the end.

It’s okay, Mom.”

“I didn’t ask whether it was okay.”

He placed the photograph down.

“I used to think if I did something impressive enough, he’d stop treating my stuff like it was an interruption.