After My Father’s

hair cut at her jaw and eyes sharp enough to slice fruit. She wore black slacks, a charcoal cardigan, and no sympathy on her face.

I appreciated that.

Sympathy might have broken me again.

“Sit,” she said.

I sat.

She placed a sealed envelope on the conference table.

My name was written on it in Dad’s hand.

Carrie-girl.

Nobody else called me that.

The sight of continue reading …