When I set the guitar aside, he opens his eyes. “Time to talk?”

I shrug, both knowing we probably need to and dreading actually doing it.

“First off,” Dad says, “I owe you an apology. Probably a couple years’ worth.”

It isn’t the opener I expected, and all the defenses I’ve been gathering sort of melt away. I chew my lip, thinking. Finally, I say, “I’m not a little kid. You shouldn’t hide things from me.”

He sighs. “Actually, Emmie, you are. Hear me out,” he adds, holding up his hands as I start to protest. “I know you’re not a little kid in … a lot of ways. But in other ways, you are. Or, you should get to be. I’m supposed to be the one helping you with the big things. School.” He bites his lip. “Loss. Grief. Not the other way around.”

“It’s okay,” I start to say, but he shakes his head.

“No. It’s not. And I’m sorry. I’m going to do better.”

I think about the ramp, hauled off to the scrapyard in a trailer load of twisted junk. As angry as it makes me to think about it, I also feel sad for Dad, who I know loved that ramp, too. Maybe I’m saddest for the Dad I remember from before—my carefree partner in mischief.

“I guess after busting out a sledgehammer and snips, the only way left to go is up,” I joke.

Dad looks surprised for a second, then chuckles. “Can’t argue that,” he admits. He stares at Mom’s guitar for a long moment. Then he walks across the room, picks it up, and runs his fingers over the strings.

“Dear God,” he says, and the pain in his voice reminds me how alone he looked that day at the Fairy Festival, standing behind the stage with tears on his face. “She was so proud when she brought this home.”

“I want to learn to play it.”

“I think we can manage that,” he says. “You know, I can’t even remember which painting this was. She loved so many.” He touches the long-haired lady in the boat printed on the guitar. “Isn’t that terrible? Your mom wanted so bad to go see it for real one day, and I can’t even recollect the name of her favorite painting. Much less the museum where it is.”

That does seem awfully sad, and I feel worse as I realize I can’t remember, either.

Then, out of nowhere, a scrap of memory bubbles up. Words scrawled on the side of Mom’s last coffee can.

Tate Fund!!!

I grab Dad’s phone and start searching combinations of Tate and Lady in Boat. It doesn’t take long to find it.

The Lady of Shalott. 1888. John William Waterhouse. Tate Britain, London.

When I show Dad, he smiles. “Sounds about right,” he says with a choky little laugh. “Of course it’s not someplace sensible like Atlanta or Charlotte. Never had time to dream small, your mom.”