Client logs full of my father’s contacts.

First-draft contracts layered in my red pen.

Bank receipts for the seed money I had wired to keep his dream alive.

I held them up.

“In the first year of Warner’s company,” I told the silent room, “we ran out of runway three times.

The first time, he wept on our apartment floor, and I drained fifty thousand dollars — every cent I’d saved in five years of work — so he could make payroll.