letters, the trust copies, the ledger, and photographs of our newly reopened workshop.
Dad hung the key on a small brass hook inside.
Then he closed the panel.
“Done?” I asked.
He considered the question.
“No.”
“What’s left?”
“Living.”
I smiled.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
We went inside.
The kitchen table had been extended with both leaves.
Mom sat at one end.
Luis at the other.
Derek and Veronica were setting out plates.
Inez had somehow been convinced to stay for dinner.
For years, I had believed my parents’
