Lily spectacularly lost her other front tooth biting into an apple. The video’s momentum had plateaued, though we were still occasionally ambushed by kind strangers at the grocery store.

When Mia read my father’s dinner invitation, she set the phone gently on the granite counter. “What do you want to do, Caleb?”

“I want parents who showed up to my wedding,” I admitted, the old grief flaring. “But since I don’t own a time machine, I want to see if the parents I’m stuck with have the capacity to evolve.”

Mia nodded slowly, her posture guarded but willing. “Then we set the terms.”

We dictated the rules by text. Dinner would be at our house, our sanctuary—we would not walk into their museum of control. Lily would not be told about the conflict.

My father had to apologize before the first plate was served. If he slipped, if a single insult was lobbed at Mia or Lily, the dinner was over. No debate.