“Sophie…”
He hesitated.
“I know this place meant something different to you. I’m glad you told us that.”
I held the phone quietly.
“He was proud of you,” I said. “He told me.”
There was a long pause.
“He told me too,” Derek answered softly. “About you.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
We simply shared the silence left behind by a father who had always found his own way of showing up for each of us.
Amber called the very next day.
She told me she’d spoken with Derek, consulted a friend who worked as a financial planner, and spent time thinking about what I’d said—that the house held thirty-two years of our father’s life.
“I want to accept your offer too,” she said. “But I want one thing.”
“Tell me.”
“The reading glasses on his nightstand,” she said. “And the photo on the bookshelf. The one of all three of us at his sixtieth birthday.”
