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.
Every head seemed to
