I promised the only thing I knew I could do: “We’ll work very hard at that.”

PART 11

My father, Edward Calloway, was recovering from his heart condition when I finally told him about Willa.

He lived in a quiet suburb outside Chicago, surrounded by books he had bought but never quite finished.

For years he’d let Victoria manage the household and, more importantly, the conversations he disliked.

He looked at the photograph of Willa with her rabbit and lowered it slowly to his lap.

“She’s beautiful.”