microphone and announced that the person who made the evening possible was me.
Dana stopped smiling when the director lifted a framed black-and-white photograph of our mother at twenty-four, standing outside the old library with a stack of children’s books. I had found it in a box at Mom’s house while looking for photos for the display. On the back, our father had written, “For Paula, when she is older.” Dad died when I was fifteen, and Dana had always been the family organizer after that. She handled reservations, holidays, and announcements. I handled the quiet jobs: driving Mom, fixing things, sitting through appointments, remembering what needed doing. Dana liked the visible parts.
