For twenty years, my dad quietly packed my lunch every morning before leaving for construction work—the day after his funeral, I found one more lunchbox by my front door and went pale.

I looked at the building. "Did you come to his funeral?"

Lily nodded again. "I stayed near the tree. I didn't know what I was allowed to say."

I remembered her then: a thin girl standing alone beyond the folding chairs. I had assumed she belonged to a coworker.

"He promised he'd attend my graduation," Lily said. "Then he stopped coming. Mom finally admitted he had cancer."

Her voice shook. "I thought he had forgotten me before he died."

"He didn't forget anyone," I said, more sharply than I intended.

Lily flinched.

I closed my eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I."

She wiped her cheeks. "Mom is upstairs. She had surgery. You don't have to see her."

"Yes," I said. "I do."

Denise was sitting beneath a blanket when we entered. Time had narrowed her face, but I recognized her immediately from the single photograph Dad kept hidden in a drawer.

She stared at me.

"Claire."

I remained standing. "Why did you let him raise another child after abandoning his first?"

Lily whispered, "Claire, please."

Denise lifted one hand. "She deserves to ask."

Then she looked at me. "I had nowhere else to turn. Richard left years ago. I became ill. Lily was carrying everything."

"I knew he would never ignore a child who needed help."