“Karen know you’re here?”
“She knows.”
He was quiet.
“Everything all right?”
I looked at him.
At the man who had worked half a century.
The man who fixed our furnace without being asked.
The man who had tried to protect me from conflict by pretending being excluded didn’t bother him.
“No,” I said.
“But it will be.”
Dad nodded once.
Then he went to the cabinet and took out two plates.
We ate Thanksgiving at the kitchen table he had built himself in 1987.
The turkey was excellent.
The sweet potatoes had gotten a little soft during the drive.
Dad took two servings anyway.
We watched the end of the parade.
Then a football game neither of us cared much about.
Mostly we talked.
About my work crew.
About the old Silverado carburetor he was rebuilding for a neighbor.
About winter.
About whether I needed to replace the weatherstripping around his garage doors.
He never asked again what had happened.
He understood.
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.
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.
