He was seventy-one and still had the bluntness of a man who had spent forty years running a machine shop outside Joliet. My mother curated impressions; my father solved problems. All week I had been replaying his words from that night—my help, or my silence—and understanding them differently. He hadn’t just defended me. He had withdrawn the one thing that had protected everyone else for years: his willingness to keep the peace by saying nothing.
Two Sundays later, Melissa came to my door alone.
She looked immaculate, as always—camel coat, gold hoops, expensive boots—but her eyes were puffy. She had clearly cried before arriving and reapplied makeup in the car. That was very Melissa: grief, but tidy.
“I won’t stay long,” she said.
I stepped aside and let her in. Lily was at a friend’s house, which was probably for the best.
Melissa remained standing in my living room, glancing around at the toys in the basket, the stack of library books, the shoes by the radiator. Real life made her uneasy unless it had been arranged for company.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last. The words seemed to cost her. “I was scared about money, and I made you the easiest person to move out of the way.”