Dad watched me uncover the trays.
“Karen know you’re here?”
“She knows.”
He was quiet.
“Everything all right?”
I looked at him.
At the man who had worked half a century.
The man who fixed our furnace without being asked.
The man who had tried to protect me from conflict by pretending being excluded didn’t bother him.
“No,” I said.
“But it will be.”
Dad nodded once.
Then he went to the cabinet and took out two plates.
We ate Thanksgiving at the kitchen table he had built himself in
