Paige gave a shaky laugh. “Maybe therapy works,” she said, echoing my father’s line with a faint smile.
Later that night, my father stood at the podium for a short speech.
He didn’t talk about Victoria by name. He didn’t need to.
He spoke about my mother. About how she’d been the kind of woman who made people feel safe. About how he’d failed to protect that safety for a long time, and how his daughter had built it again with her own hands.
“I used to think legacy was a name on a building,” he said, voice thick. “Now I think legacy is what you refuse to let harm survive.”
When the applause ended, he stepped down and found me.
“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly.
I nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “I’m proud of you too,” I managed.
After the event, I drove back to Sullivan’s Island alone. The beach house porch light was on, warm against the dark. The ocean was louder at night, more present.
Inside, I took my mother’s letter from the drawer and placed it on the kitchen counter. Then I pulled out the worn recipe card I’d carried through college, through grief, through everything.
Lemon cake.