Dad was folding a dish towel.
“She’s not angry.”
“She definitely is, Dad.”
He gave me a weary look.
“Try to understand your mother, Annie. If you knew the whole story, you wouldn’t be angry with her.”
I wish I’d asked him what he meant.
Two weeks ago, Dad was driving home when another car crossed into his lane.
He never made it back.
Some events remain impossible for your mind to accept even after your body has already begun living through them.
Dad’s shoes were still beside the garage door.
His coffee mug remained in the cabinet.
His jacket still hung from its hook.
But he was gone.
Mom and I were sorting through sympathy cards when the delivery arrived.
The box was enormous.
The driver left it on the porch and asked for my signature. At first, I almost told him he had the wrong house.
