In his place hung a new portrait.
Not of Daniel.
Not of any general.
It was a photograph taken in Austin beneath a blooming oak tree: Margaret seated on a picnic blanket while four children leaned against her, laughing so hard none of them looked dignified.
The first time I saw it, I stood beneath the staircase and lost the ability to speak.
Margaret appeared beside me.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Her voice softened. “This house needed living faces.”
The children had grown more comfortable there, though comfort came in uneven ways.
Olivia loved the kitchen, the gardens, and Margaret’s closet full of silk scarves.
Sophia loved the library and had declared the estate acceptable because “any house with rolling ladders deserves a second chance.”
Ethan loved the records room, where Margaret allowed him to organize old family documents into acid-free folders.
