Mom stood at the counter buttering toast.
Her knife froze halfway across the bread.
Dad noticed.
“So,” he said, setting the photograph down, “how’s work?”
That was Hawaii in our family.
One moment it existed.
The next, someone changed the subject.
Dad had been born there and left at twenty. He moved to Oregon for work, met Mom, married her, and never returned.
Not once.
I never understood why.
When I was little, he talked openly about missing Hawaii—the rainstorms, fruit from roadside stands, and birds calling before sunrise.
As I got older, though, I started noticing Mom’s reaction whenever he mentioned it.
She’d go quiet.
Sometimes she’d leave the room.
Once, after Dad said he’d like to see the ocean there again, she put her plate in the sink so hard I thought it might crack.
Later, I confronted him.
“Why does Mom get angry every time you talk about Hawaii?”
