They called on
birthdays.
They saw each other at Christmas.
But something between them had closed.
I knew Dad regretted it.
Naturally, he never said so.
But during those final six months, I noticed how his expression changed whenever Eric’s name came up.
I noticed the phone calls that ended sooner than Dad wanted.
And one evening, I saw him sitting alone at the kitchen table, carefully writing something on a sheet of paper.
He would write.
Stop.
Think.
Then begin again.
I never asked what it was.
After his funeral, I wished I had.
The morning we buried Dad was cold and clear.
I arrived early wearing the black dress I had bought specifically for the funeral and a pair of shoes Dad had given me two birthdays earlier.
People slowly filled the chapel.
Then, after nearly everyone had taken their seats, the doors opened.
Eric walked in.
