Gradually, as summer bled into autumn, the silence began to thaw. We spoke in small increments, tentative and careful, like learning a new language. We talked about the weather, shared meals in silence that was no longer suffocating, and occasionally, shared memories of the woman who had once been the bridge between us.

In time, I realized that while my father might never fully understand or express the pride he felt, his presence—flawed and silent—was a form of love. And though the trophy lay in pieces, the lessons it represented remained unbroken, a testament to resilience and the unyielding spirit my mother had instilled in me.