“Lucas… sweetheart… maybe you should come.”
The line went dead.
I left Portland that afternoon.
Gregory’s black pickup was parked sideways across the garage when I arrived.
Wet towels hung over the porch railing. Coolers and beach chairs blocked the walkway. A front window was cracked, and music pounded through the house hard enough to rattle the glass.
Then I heard Gregory shouting.
I opened the front door.
Mom stood near the staircase, pressing a kitchen towel to her mouth.
Dad was beside the entry table.
He was shaking so badly his glasses had slipped down his nose.
At his feet sat a cardboard box packed with his sweaters, medication, and the framed photograph from his fiftieth anniversary dinner.
Gregory stood inches from him.
“This is my house now, old man,” he shouted. “You and Irene need to pack your things and leave.”
