not have admitted.
But something changed that Thanksgiving.
For the first time, I stopped accepting responsibility for everyone else’s discomfort.
In December, Don Whitfield called me.
He spoke formally, as always.
He said he understood there had been “some difficulty” at Thanksgiving.
I told him directly:
“My father will be invited to every holiday dinner in this house from now on. If his presence bothers anyone, that is their problem to solve.”
Don was silent.
Then he said,
“Your father worked at GM for a long time.”
“Fifty years.”
“That’s
