Later, over coffee and pie, Dad said quietly,

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did.”

“She’s your wife, Rick.”

“I know.”

I looked at him.

“And you’re my father. I should have said something years ago.”

Dad stared into his coffee.

“I really didn’t mind staying here.”

I knew what he was doing.

Trying to make it easier for me.

“You should have been there,” I said. “You’ve always deserved to be there.”

He didn’t answer.

After a while, he looked at his plate.

“Good pie.”

I smiled.

“Karen made it.”

Dad nodded.

“She’s a good baker.”

That was my father.

Seventy-four years old.

Excluded from Thanksgiving by his daughter-in-law.

Still complimenting her pie.

My phone had been buzzing most of the afternoon.

Karen called several times.

Don called twice, which was unusual because he had never called me directly in twelve years.