The nieces weren’t there to hear this; they were in the living room watching an animated movie about an old man and his house being lifted by balloons.

“Dad?” Colleen asked gently.

“Do we make memories or do memories make us?” He asked this paradoxical question as though he were asking what time dinner would be ready.

“I don’t know,” Colleen said. “Maybe both.”

“Maybe . . .” Shane chimed in. “Does it matter? We want to help no matter what it is.”

“Listen,” Gavin said. “I know why we’re here.” He lifted his head to meet Colleen’s gaze. “To talk about me and my fading memory.” He held the photo he’d been staring at. “But your brother brought this, and I just don’t know why.”

“Let me see.” She glanced over her dad’s shoulder. It was the faded color photo of Gavin sitting on a stone wall. Sheep, three of them with muddy bellies and bowed heads, stood in the background beside a creek. Boulders and rocks were visible below the water; rich green grass tufted the banks—it looked like every photo of Ireland she’d ever seen. Dad wore a suit and tie knotted so tightly that his neck wrinkled against the collar. A white flower was buttoned to his lapel and his smile was broad, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“When was this taken?” Colleen asked.

“I don’t know.” He looked at her. “A long time ago.” He paused. “You know I don’t like being this late for the pub. I only trust Hampton so far.”

“You mean Hank.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant.” His face was so pained at his mistake that Colleen felt the embarrassment for him.

Hallie squeezed her dad’s arm. “We love you so much. This isn’t a talk about how you’ve done wrong but how we can help. You’re going to need more care than you’re getting right now. You can’t live alone. And you can’t . . .” Her voice cracked.

Gavin glanced away from Hallie, directly at Colleen. “You can live here with me.” He clapped his hands together. “Problem solved.” He stood from his chair. “Now I have to be getting on to the pub.”

Hallie stood. “Dad, Lena lives in New York.”

“I’m not a complete bumbling idiot. I know where she lives.” His voice held the flint edge of anger not yet ignited. He closed his eyes and tried again. “But she can move back here.” He took two steps toward Colleen, his face twisted with something she’d seen only when her mother died; some vital grief that couldn’t hide behind a mask of any kind.

“I can’t, Dad. I . . .”

“You can’t? Why? You prefer to live in a tiny apartment all alone and avoid us?”

He’d never spoken to her like this—the sudden sarcasm like barbed wire digging in. “Dad.”