THE LAST GALA
Seven years after the night Grant left me washing dishes, I returned to the Atlantic Legacy Gala.
This time, the event honored the Bellamy Center’s work helping families recover assets stolen through intimate-partner fraud.
My father attended beside me.
He used a cane now.
Before entering the ballroom, he stopped near the grand staircase.
“Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“That does not sound certain.”
“It is honest.”
We walked inside.
The museum looked almost unchanged.
The same staircase.
The same chandeliers.
The same floor where Grant’s glass shattered.
A young server carried a tray past us.
One glass tipped and broke.
The sound stopped me.
For a moment, I saw Grant’s face again.
Then the server crouched immediately.
“I’m so sorry.”
