His rigid posture sagged. He looked away, out toward the street, then back to the little girl who was inadvertently dismantling him. “Yes. I did.”

Lily smiled—a radiant expression that seemed to officially pardon him. “It’s okay. You can look at the pictures inside.”

Without hesitation, she reached out, grabbed his large, calloused hand, and pulled the patriarch of the family across the threshold.

The dinner was not a magic cure. Trauma doesn’t evaporate over roast chicken. Robert was painfully awkward around Mia, measuring his words with agonizing precision.

Mia stayed polite but guarded. My mother overcompensated wildly, praising the mashed potatoes, the table runner, and a crayon drawing taped to the fridge.

Hannah, who arrived late, spent the meal kicking my shin under the table because our father had spent a solid five minutes staring at a framed wedding photo in the hallway.