Then he looked directly at Mia. The porch fell silent.

He swallowed hard. “Mia,” he began, every syllable sounding excavated from deep in his chest, “I was wrong about you. I spoke with real cruelty about you and about your daughter.

I judged a life I had no comprehension of. I missed my only son’s wedding because of my own blind pride. I’m sorry.”

Mia did not offer him cheap grace. She stood perfectly still, her spine steel, her face pale but resolute. “Thank you for saying that,” she replied evenly—accepting the apology without erasing the offense.

Then Robert turned his gaze down to Lily. This was the moment I’d feared all week. Children have an uncanny radar; they know when someone is merely performing.

Lily tilted her head, waiting.