I hated that two-word pity. I loved it too.
By January fifth, my father came to see me.
He arrived alone, driving the old pickup he used for hardware store runs. He sat in the driveway for nearly five minutes before getting out. I watched from the window as he removed his cap, put it back on, then removed it again.
When I opened the door, he looked smaller than I remembered.
Not physically. My father was still broad-shouldered, still wearing the same brown coat he had owned since I was in college. But something inside him had collapsed. The comfortable structure of excuses, perhaps.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
I hesitated.
Then I said, “The kids are at school.”
He nodded, understanding the condition inside the statement.
He stepped into my kitchen and looked around as if he had never really seen my house before. The chipped blue mugs. The school calendar. Emma’s drawing of a fox taped to the fridge. Noah’s spelling test with a gold star.
