Chapter 2

The heavy oak doors of the civic center closed behind the last lingering guests, leaving the hallway smelling of stale champagne and wilted lilies.

I stood near the coat rack, holding Iris's heavy winter parka.

A few feet away, beneath the fluorescent lights of the corridor, the documentary crew set up a portable backdrop.

Diana stepped up to Iris first, reaching out to tuck a stray tag back into the collar of her sweater.

She reached into her leather handbag and pulled out a small foil-wrapped mint, pressing it into Iris's palm. "One before you head out, sweetie. Not two. You'll get thirsty."

Iris took the mint, her shoulders dropping slightly. "Thanks, Grandma."

"I showed your stage design model to everyone in my book club yesterday," Diana added, her voice warm and genuinely proud. "Mrs. Adler thought the tiny velvet curtains you made were real."

Iris smiled, a small, genuine flicker of relief touching her face.

Diana closed Iris's fingers gently around the mint, her eyes softening. "Nora may ask about the hospital segment on Saturday, sweetie. You don't have to remember it yourself. Just tell her the story has always made you feel loved."

Iris's smile faded, her thumb pressing into the foil wrapper. "What if I don't?"

"Then people may think your father lied," Diana said softly, tapping Iris's cheek before stepping back.

Diana squeezed Iris's hand one last time, then turned toward Marcus. "All right. They still need the father-daughter photograph."

The photographer directed Iris onto a taped line on the floor. "Iris, stand right next to your dad. Place your hand on his arm and look up at him."

Iris held up her framed stage design award.

The photographer frowned through his viewfinder. "Lower the framed glass, sweetie, it's catching the light."

Marcus reached out, took the certificate from her hands, and leaned it against the base of a folding chair behind him.

Then he stepped backward for the shot.

He didn't stomp on it or shove it aside, but when he took his position, his legs blocked it from the camera's view completely.

Iris stared at the lens. "You can't even see my name."

"The poster's about you and your dad, honey," the photographer said, clicking the shutter twice.

Iris looked at the camera. "Then why can't anyone see what I did?"

"My mom brought me," Iris added, her voice dropping. "She should be in the picture."

Marcus forced a warm chuckle, looking at the crew. "This shot is specifically for the father-daughter segment, sweetie. We'll take the family one right after this, okay?"

The photographer checked his watch, apologized about a tight setup window, and began tearing down his light stands.

The family photo was never taken.

On the drive home, Iris sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the passing streetlights.

She reached into her bag, pulling out her stage design award.

The corner of the paper matting was slightly creased.

"It was stupid," she said, her fingers picking at the bent corner of the frame.

"What was?" I asked.

"I liked it, okay?" She kept her eyes glued to the dark glass. "People thought he was cool. Then they thought I was cool."

"And you didn't correct them."

"No." She looked out at the streetlights blurring past. "I didn't. In middle school, teachers were softer on me when they found out who my dad was. I liked people thinking he was that dad. The one in Grandma's book. It made me feel like having a famous dad meant something, even if he wasn't really around."

She picked at the paper frame again, her throat working silently. "I didn't correct them. Is that bad?"

For one ugly second, I wanted to ask why being my daughter had never been enough to make her feel visible.

I kept my eyes on the road until the thought passed, swallowing down the bitter taste in my throat.

"No," I said quietly, adjusting my grip on the wheel. "You were a kid who liked hearing good things about her father."

Iris leaned her head back against the headrest. "Will Grandma still call me if I say it didn't happen?"

"I don't know, honey," I said. "She should. But I don't know."

By nine-thirty, we were back in my kitchen.

Iris set her certificate on the island.

I walked down the hallway, opened the coat closet, and reached past the hanging winter coats.

In the dark back corner of the top shelf sat an old, heavy cardboard box.

My fingers brushed against the stiff lid.

I didn't pull it down.

I simply let my hand rest over the cardboard for three seconds before closing the door.

The front doorbell chimed.

I walked to the entryway and pulled open the door.

Marcus stood under the yellow porch light, holding a blue folder filled with interview prep sheets.

He made a move to step past me into the foyer.

I didn't move.

I stayed planted in the doorway, blocking the threshold with my arm resting on the frame.

I didn't budge an inch until he stepped back off the tile and onto the porch mat.

Only then did I open the door wider.

"Ten minutes," I said. "At the kitchen table. Then you leave."

Marcus paused, his jaw tightening slightly before he forced a nod. "Ten minutes."