“You sounded like your mother just then.”
“I’ve been told.”
He looked toward the house.
“I don’t expect you to forgive twenty years because I figured out I was wrong during one dinner.”
I leaned against the car.
“I don’t think forgiveness works like a receipt, Dad.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“I suppose not.”
He pulled one hand from his pocket.
In it was a small brass key.
“What’s that?”
“The display case.”
I stared at him.
Ethan’s famous display case.
Dad looked embarrassed.
“I’m taking it down.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Ethan earned those medals.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why?”
“Because I realized something last night.”
He looked through the front window toward the living room.
“I made one wall in that house a museum to one version of success.”
I said nothing.
“I’m moving Ethan’s things to the study.
