“You know,” I started, hesitantly, “I didn’t do all this just for me. Mom always said—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted sharply, his eyes flashing with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. “Don’t bring her into this.”

“But she believed in me,” I insisted, my voice rising. “She wanted this for me. She wanted you to want this for me.”

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw the shadow of a man who once loved fiercely and lived fully. Yet, what remained now was a shell, hollowed out by loss and bitterness. “I’m trying, Sophie,” he said finally, his voice cracking. “But it’s hard.”

The admission hung in the air, raw and unexpected. It softened something in me, though the hurt was still too fresh, too deep. I realized then that while my trophy could be replaced, the years of strained silence and unvoiced pain between us could not be so easily mended.