After my husband died, his daughter climbed into my bed every night and asked, “Are you going to leave me too?” His family refused to take her, so I raised her alone for nine years.

On Wednesday evening, Lily and I drove to Columbus to visit Marcus. The assisted-living facility was bright and smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old coffee. Marcus sat in a winged armchair by his window, a thick blanket draped over his knees despite the warmth of the room.

"You're late," Marcus said, though the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth betrayed his gruff tone.

"Traffic on the interstate," Lily replied, kissing his cheek and handing him a paper bag. "I brought the cinnamon rolls you like. The ones from the bakery near the new center."

Marcus took the bag, peering inside with immense satisfaction.

"How is the boy?" he asked, looking up at me.

"Noah is adjusting," I said, taking the seat opposite him. "He helped Lily in the garden yesterday. He pulled up three of the tomato plants thinking they were weeds, but his heart was in the right place."

Marcus chuckled, a dry, rattling sound in his chest.

"Daniel did the exact same thing when he was eight," Marcus said, his eyes softening as they focused on the parking lot outside. "My wife was furious. She chased him around the yard with a wooden spoon, but she was laughing too hard to ever catch him."

Lily leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.

"Tell me another one," she asked softly. "Tell me about when he learned to drive."

For the next hour, Marcus wove stories of Daniel’s youth. He spoke of scraped knees, broken windows, and a quiet boy who loved sketching houses on the backs of diner napkins. I watched Lily absorb every word, collecting these fragmented pieces of her father to build a complete picture.