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 a long time.”

“Yes.”

Don didn’t apologize.

I wasn’t expecting him to.

But at Easter, he sat beside Dad.

Karen and I had set the table for eight.

Dad was there.

Same as everyone else.

Don asked him about the vintage Silverado.

Dad answered.

Then somehow they started talking about the Chicago Cubs.

For twelve years, those two men had apparently shared an interest neither knew existed because nobody had ever created the space for them to discover it.