At least, that’s what I hoped.
The night before the hearing, Dad and I returned to the house.
Claire had finally confirmed that the damaged areas had been sufficiently documented.
We could begin cleaning.
Dad brought thick work gloves and the cardboard box he’d left near the door.
“Let me handle the glass,” he said.
I started to protest.
Then stopped.
He knelt and began collecting the broken pieces of Grandma’s mirror.
He didn’t sweep the larger fragments.
He picked them up individually, placing each one gently into the box.
When he lifted the wooden frame, he turned it over.
On the back was faded writing.
I’d noticed it before but never managed to read it properly.
Dad held it toward the light.
“L.M. — from Mama — 1952.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Your grandmother’s maiden name was Lena Moretti,” he explained. “Her mother gave her this mirror on her wedding day.”
