Choosing is the thing.

Kneeling down in the snow to wipe a scuff off a small shoe is the thing.

My daughter has a father who chose her, out loud, on purpose, and keeps choosing her, and handed her the key to her own front door — and against that, in the end, one careful cruel woman with a drawer full of place cards never stood a chance.

If Gene ever decides that having a place at Holly’s table is worth becoming the kind of person who would call her granddaughter and mean it, that door can open.