It was awful. It really was. I sat at the kitchen table and stared at it for a long time.
But it wasn’t as catastrophic as I’d feared. And per the judge’s order, I forwarded it straight to Claire, who forwarded it straight to Pruitt, who paid it out of Brian’s share without a single word of argument.
I framed the receipt. I’m not proud of that. But I did.
The mirror couldn’t be completely restored.
Dad found a man two towns over who restored antique furniture. An old man named Abe, with a workshop in a converted barn and sawdust in his eyebrows. Dad drove the box out there himself.
Abe called a week later.
“Most of the frame I can save,” he said. “The corner joint I can rebuild. I can match the wood. The rose with the chip, I can carve a new petal. You’ll never know.”
