Given that he has a fresh white cast on his left hand, Dad stands remarkably tall. He wears ironed khakis and a button-down shirt whose left sleeve is rolled to clear the cast. His silver hair is vaguely disheveled, but his posture picks up the slack. It is commanding, a warning to anyone who may be in his way, and certainly enough to intimidate me. I’ve been waiting for his illness to soften that, but it hasn’t done it yet. His eyes are blue, faded from what they were a few years back, but authoritative nonetheless. His stride keeps him the half-step ahead of Anne that always seemed his due.

My sister is wearing a yellow tank top, short denim coveralls, and fuchsia high tops. With a burgundy streak in tousled dark hair, she looks as funky as my daughter.

She is reaching forward to keep a guiding hand on his elbow, though his purposeful manner implies he knows exactly where he is and why. This is encouraging. Not so the fact that he glances at us and doesn’t react.

My stomach dips under the weight of this particular memory, the one where he looks past me at Margo or Anne. That worked evenings when a jury’s prolonged deliberations nastied his mood. I was happy to be out of his sight then. Other times, I would have killed for a loving word.

Anne quickly pulls him to a stop. “Look who’s here, Daddy! It’s Mallory and Joy, come to surprise us. Isn’t that super?”

“Hi, Daddy,” I say, stretching up to brush a kiss on his cheek.

He seems puzzled, unable to place me. I’m wondering if maybe it’s just disbelief, when Anne breaks the moment by giving me a hug.

“You look fabulous, Mallory. And Joy?” The deliberateness with which she repeats our names says she’s helping Dad out. In the three years since he saw my daughter last, she has certainly changed.

Joy is shy, standing close to me when her grandfather’s gaze finally leaves my face and finds hers, and what takes place then is the best I’d hoped for. His features soften, brows rise in pleased surprise, eyes light with something akin to hope.

Encouraged, Joy kisses him as I had done. “Hi, Papa,” she says.

He smiles and touches her cheek with his good hand. “Margo. You’re here. All the way from San Antonio?”

“New York,” Joy says lightly, ignoring the Margo. “We just drove up. I’m sorry about your wrist.”

But he’s frowning. “Not San Antonio? Did you move?”

Anne says, “Daddy, Margo lives in Chicago. This is Mallory’s daughter, Joy.”

“Mallory’s?” He does look at me, clearly making the connection with my name, but he’s confused.

I put an arm around Joy’s shoulder and smile. “My daughter.”

“You’re married? When? Why did I not know? Does no one tell me these things?”