“No,” I said. “She wanted her to know the man you used to be. The one who still had a heart.”

Ethan turned the photograph over in his hand.

On the back, in Mary’s neat, slanted handwriting, were the words: *The man who built our dreams.*

He stared at the ink for a long time, his jaw working as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

A single tear fell from his cheek, landing on the glossy surface of the picture.

He quickly wiped it away with his thumb, but the damp spot remained.

“She told Lauren stories about you, Ethan,” I said.

He looked up at me, his eyes rimmed with red.

“What kind of stories?” he asked.

“Stories about a builder who wanted to make the world beautiful,” I said. “She didn’t mention the skyscrapers or the money.”

He looked back at the journal in his lap.

He turned a page, the paper rustling in the quiet room.

“May fourteenth,” he read, his voice shaking.

“Lauren asked why we don’t have a big house like the ones in her picture books.”