Dad hated it.
“Emily, enough,” he would say.
I would laugh.
“Dad, he’s Grandpa.”
“I know exactly who he is. Just be careful with him.”
That sentence always bothered me.
Be careful with him?
Grandpa George was seventy-nine, gentle, quiet, and probably the least frightening person I knew.
Whenever I asked Dad what he meant, he refused to explain.
“He’s getting older. That’s all.”
But sometimes his expression suggested it wasn’t all.
Grandpa noticed too.
One Thanksgiving, Dad saw me sitting on the arm of Grandpa’s chair with my legs partly across his lap.
“Emily. Move.”
Grandpa immediately looked away.
I stood up angrily.
Later I confronted Dad in the kitchen.
“What is wrong with you?”
His answer stunned me.
“One day you’ll understand why I keep telling you.”
