Thanksgiving house somehow does.
Warm.
Familiar.
Comforting.
I called Dad to tell him I was getting ready to pick him up.
Normally, he would make some joke about whether my truck had enough room for a man who had already eaten breakfast twice.
Instead, his voice sounded careful.
“Rick, I don’t think I’m coming this year.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Karen called last night. She said it was going to be a small dinner and she didn’t want me feeling crowded.”
For a moment, I didn’t say anything.
“She called you?”
