Iris had been counting down to prom for months.

My sister called that evening.

“She loves you.”

“I know.”

---

“She’s also furious.”

“I know that too.”

The next weeks were difficult.

Iris asked questions I had avoided asking myself.

---

Had there been other letters?

Had he offered support?

What had I told him about her?

I gave her the records I had and admitted what I could not remember.

---

We began counseling together.

Some sessions ended with a quiet drive home.

Others ended with us arguing in the parking lot.

But we kept returning.

---

Her first meeting with Adam took place in a café, with my sister nearby at Iris’s request.

I did not attend.

Afterward, Iris came home carrying a small envelope of photographs.

“He apologized for leaving,” she said.

---

I waited.

“He didn’t ask me to call him Dad.”

“How did that feel?”

She considered the question.

---

“Better.”

I nodded.

Then she added, “I don’t know what I want yet.”

“You don’t have to know.”

---

It was an answer I should have learned to give years earlier.

Adam did not become a perfect father overnight.

There were awkward calls, missed references, and seventeen years neither of them could recover.

But he kept the appointments he made.

---

Iris decided how often they spoke.

Ryan remained part of her life too, though she made it clear that supporting her meant listening before acting.

At graduation, she invited all of us.

We sat in different seats.

---

Nobody forced a family photograph.

Months later, Iris asked me to help choose pictures for a college scrapbook.

There were birthday cakes, school plays, and the prom photograph of her standing beside Ryan.

She placed a newer picture next to it.

---

Herself and Adam outside the café.

I watched her adjust the corners.

Then she handed me the glue.

“Can you hold this straight?”

---

I leaned closer.

“Yes.”

She kept her hand beside mine until the photograph stayed in place.