When he carried the improved version inside, she told him the crooked one had more character.

We all laughed because we remembered the blue frosting stars.

He also started coming to Sunday lunch again.

For a while he barely spoke, content to peel potatoes or set the table.

Eventually he began telling stories from work, asking about my week, and arguing good-naturedly with Grandma about which local bakery made the better sourdough.

He wasn’t suddenly the cheerful brother I remembered.

Sometimes he grew quiet when a song from his wedding playlist played in a store.