Her once-vigorous frame had grown very thin. Her silver hair looked wispy against the pillow of her armchair, but her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—hadn’t dimmed at all.

“Sit down, Cecily,” she commanded. I sat across from her in the living room where I’d spent so many Sunday afternoons.

The walls were covered with photographs of her life. There was Genevieve breaking ground on her first building in 1965.

There was Genevieve shaking hands with important mayors. There was Genevieve accepting a top business award in 1987.

There wasn’t a single photo of my father at the helm.

“I built Ashford Holdings from nothing,” she said, her voice carrying decades of steel. “One office. One secretary. Sixty years of hard work.” She paused to catch her breath.