I walked up the new ramp and followed the radio into the garage. The air smelled of pine and fresh paint. At the top, a door stood open, and through it I saw a kitchen painted a color I had not seen in sixty years, the exact buttercup yellow of my childhood. My hand flew to my mouth. Sawdust covered the floor, and every doorway in the hall had been cut wide enough for a wheelchair.

Then a woman’s voice called from the back room. “Dad, are those the brackets?” A young woman in work boots stepped out holding a level, and she froze when she saw me. Behind me, gravel crunched. Trevor’s truck was sliding up the driveway, and Leonard appeared in the hallway, pale, a paint roller dripping in his hand. “Loretta,” he whispered. “You were never supposed to see this yet.”