My father walked over and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” he said softly. “I was blind for too long.”

“You came,” I said, a tear finally spilling over my eyelashes.

“Of course I came,” he said. “Now, let’s get you back to work. We have a business to build.”

Over the next three months, the winter cold gave way to a wet, gray Cleveland spring.

My father kept his word.

He contacted every commercial developer he had worked with during his thirty years in the trades.

One morning in April, he drove me down to the flats, where a massive brick warehouse was being converted into luxury lofts.

The developer, a man named Henderson, was standing near the entrance with a blueprint rolled up under his arm.

“This is my daughter, Clara,” my father told him, shaking his hand. “She’s the best master electrician in the county.”

“Arthur speaks highly of you,” Henderson said, looking me over. “The job requires a complete rewire of eighty units, plus the main commercial panels.”