"Yes."
We stood in silence.
"Why now?"
"Because saying sorry isn't enough."
I crossed my arms.
"You think replacing a threshold fixes eight months?"
"No."
"Then why?"
"Because the threshold still needs fixing."
It was such a Daniel answer that I had to look away. I let him work. He removed the old transition strip, adjusted the entry surface, and installed a low-profile threshold appropriate for the doorway. He did not talk unless I asked a question.
Maisie supervised.
"Uncle Michael, that's crooked."
"It is not."
"It looks crooked."
"Your chair has stars on the wheels. Your judgment cannot be trusted."
"Purple improves judgment."
Michael smiled for the first time since the birthday. When he finished, Maisie rolled through the doorway without the small bump that had always made her brace one hand against the frame. She turned around.
"Again."
She rolled out. Then in. Then out. Michael watched with tears in his eyes.
I saw the exact moment he understood what Daniel had been trying to explain before the crash. This was not an extravagant project. It was a series of ordinary barriers becoming unnecessary. Michael packed his tools.
Before leaving, he stood in the kitchen doorway.
"I listened to that voicemail every month."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because it was the last time he spoke to me."
"You could have shared it."
"I know."
"Stop saying that like it makes it smaller."
"I'm not."
His voice trembled.
"I kept hearing him say I was wrong, and every time I heard it, I thought tomorrow I'd tell you. Then tomorrow came and you were sleeping for the first time in three days, or Maisie had therapy, or the lawyer called, or you were finally laughing at something. There was always a reason not to break the day open."