Inside sat four cardboard boxes and our grandfather’s heavy oak tool chest, under a thin coat of gray dust.

“Do we have to hang on to all these old photo albums?” Ethan asked, lifting a dark red album out of the top box.

“Only what’s real,” I said, setting a clear plastic storage bin down on the concrete floor.

“The rest we leave behind.”

Ethan sat down on the corner of the wooden chest and opened the thick cover of the red album.

He flipped past three pages of formal country club dinners, where our father stood smiling next to city council members and bank directors.