“Iris?”
My knees nearly folded.
Daniel moved a chair behind me without saying anything. I sank into it, still holding the phone with both hands.
The voice came again, trembling.
“Iris, sweetheart, is that you?”
Sweetheart.
The word crossed ten years as if no time had passed at all. I could see my father at our old kitchen table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pencil tucked behind one ear while he helped me build a science fair bridge out of craft sticks. I could hear him laughing when it collapsed under too much weight, telling me failure was just information wearing a bad mood.
I pressed my free hand over my mouth.
“Dad?” I whispered.
Someone in the room made a small sound. Madison, perhaps. Evelyn did not move.
On the line, my father began to cry.
