Lily was pointing a sticky finger at a highly unstable, mismatched tower of plastic blocks. “See?” she beamed.

My father crouched down beside her, his knees popping audibly in the quiet room. He studied the precarious structure with the critical eye of a retired contractor.

“It’s very impressive.”

“Don’t breathe too hard,” Lily warned, shielding the tower with her hands. “It falls down when people breathe old.”

From the kitchen, Hannah choked on her wine, coughing into a napkin.

For the first time that evening—maybe the first time in a decade—my father laughed. Not his usual polite, calculated chuckle. A rich, startlingly real laugh that echoed off the walls.