And suddenly I was laughing too.
All three of us.
By the lake where my mother once watched me from sixty yards away.
By the dock where Dad once stood between us because he believed distance was safer than hope.
Now there was no distance.
Not anymore.
Mom moved into Margaret’s Place that autumn.
She began helping new residents with art classes.
Frank volunteered three days a week and spent most of his time pretending not to flirt with the receptionist.
As for me, I kept working my regular job for a while.
Then donations increased.
The board hired me full-time to manage the retreat.
A year later, we built two more cabins.
Then a workshop.
Then a small scholarship fund.
We called it the Daniel Carter Fund for Family Recovery.
I objected to the name.
Frank insisted.
“He’d hate it,” I said.
“That’s why we’re doing it.”
