“Yes,” I answered.

“We did.”

It was the first time I saw clearly that telling the truth about an ending did not require rewriting every year that had come before.

Roger had warmed my car on cold mornings.

He had also failed us in ways I hadn’t wanted to name.

Both could be true, and Trevor deserved permission to remember the whole person without being asked to defend him.

That night I put our family albums back on the shelf, not in a box marked for donation.