My father, Oliver Caldwell Biddle, died in March. He and my mother split up when I was one, and I grew up with my mother and my stepfather. My mother was a divisive influence, and it wasn't until she died, in 2006, that I felt free to fully embrace my father. I was never going to be able to create a childhood with him in the home, and I was never going to unlive the years of my mother and father making scathing remarks about each other, but I had the chance to appreciate him in a way I hadn't before.
When he and his wife, Mary, moved from their big home to smaller quarters, I spotted this location, lit by the three windows of a sun room, and set out to take at least one picture every visit with me and my father included. This is a ten-year selection, from 2009 to 2018.