She turned and smiled.

The smile wasn’t young or carefree.

It was something stronger, shaped by the knowledge that ordinary choices had value.

Before we left, she pulled a small envelope from her purse.

Inside was a photograph of me at eighteen, standing beside my father on graduation day.

He was laughing, one hand resting on my shoulder.

“I found it in the sewing drawer,” she said.

“He’d be proud of you.”