Gordon stepped over the railing and walked onto the court, his boots loud against the polished floor. The gym went quiet. Brooke stopped mid-step, her hand tight on Harlan’s arm. Gordon’s voice cracked. “Harlan, may I say something?” My father nodded once. Gordon turned to my daughter, his eyes wet. “Brooke, I was wrong. I was never afraid of taking something that wasn’t mine.”

He pulled a folded paper from his vest pocket. “I was afraid you would say no,” he said. “I have carried this for three years.” Brooke stared at it, and I could not breathe. The announcer lowered his microphone. Gordon unfolded the page, and a stack of old, worn photographs slid from inside, scattering across the center circle at Brooke’s feet.