By late afternoon, Karen’s messages had changed from anger to worry.
I stayed with Dad until evening.
When I left, I hugged him and promised to return Saturday to check the garage.
He told me to bring a decent lunch because he was tired of sandwiches.
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.
“He is the reason I know how to work. He taught me to show up when people need help. He taught me how to fix things instead of throwing them away.”
