When I arrived home, Karen was sitting in the living room.
Her parents were gone.
The dining table was still set.
Six untouched places.
The good silverware.
Crystal glasses.
Everything arranged beautifully for a meal that had been eaten twelve miles away on a table my father built with his own hands.
Karen had clearly been crying.
“Sit down,” I said.
We sat across from each other.
And I finally said what I should have said years earlier.
“My father is not something you manage around.”
Karen looked at me.
