Paige went pale and admitted the truth. She had never needed groceries. Every time I celebrated anything, she had quietly asked Mom for help with something small, because she feared being overshadowed, and Mom, who had always worried about her younger daughter, never refused. This time she had known the house was finished and did not want to watch her parents admire it. She cried and said she was ashamed.

Mom stared at the paused image of the dining table, her hands shaking. She said she had mistaken favoritism for care and had never seen how much it cost me. Dad, who rarely spoke, said he should have said something years ago. They called me that afternoon, and Mom could barely finish the sentence. She said they were proud, that they had always been, and that they were sorry they had never said it aloud.

I told them I was glad they called and that I needed time. I invited them for New Year’s weekend, with one condition: Paige would come too, and everyone would treat the visit as mine. They agreed. When they walked through the door, Mom touched the stone fireplace and cried. Dad stood in the kitchen for ten minutes just looking at the beams, and Paige hugged me before saying a word.

We ate leftover Christmas pie and talked until midnight. It was not a perfect repair, but it was honest. Paige now visits on her own, and she brought groceries for the first time, a small bag, for me. My parents come every season. In the media room, the television recording is saved, and Dad watches my sentence about welcome whenever he thinks no one is looking.