doing?”
“Packing dinner.”
“Rick.”
I kept working.
“I heard you tell my father he wasn’t welcome in his son’s home on Thanksgiving because he smells like the work he spent fifty years doing.”
She stared at me.
“I’m not sitting down to dinner after that.”
“So you’re ruining Thanksgiving?”
“No.”
I covered the sweet potatoes with foil.
“I’m having Thanksgiving with my father.”
Karen told me I was being childish.
She said her parents would be embarrassed.
She said I couldn’t simply take the food and leave.
She said I
