Fiona leaned against the kitchen doorway, holding one of Mom’s crystal wineglasses.
She didn’t defend our father.
She laughed.
“Dad, stop being dramatic. You and Mom don’t need a place this big. Gregory and I have children. Lucas won’t mind.”
Gregory kicked the cardboard box toward Dad’s shoes.
“The door’s right there,” he said. “Use it.”
Nobody moved.
Even my nephews had gone silent in the living room.
Dad looked down at the box instead of answering.
That hurt more than Gregory’s shouting.
My father had worked forty-three years without once asking me for money. He had driven the same truck until rust ate through the wheel wells. He had missed vacations so Fiona and I could go to college.
Now he was standing inside his anniversary gift like a trespasser.
