Chapter 2
Dad opened the door wearing an old blue flannel shirt.
When he saw me holding the turkey, his eyes widened.
Then he noticed Emily carrying two foil trays behind me.
“Oh, no.”
I stepped inside.
“Oh, yes.”
“Rick, take that food back home.”
“No.”
“Your wife cooked all day.”
“So did I.”
That was true.
Karen handled the turkey and stuffing.
I had made the potatoes, beans, gravy, and rolls.
Dad looked embarrassed.
“That dinner was supposed to be for everybody.”
“It still is.”
I carried the turkey toward his kitchen.
“Everybody who's welcome.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“Son.”
Emily walked straight to him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Grandpa.”
His expression broke.
He hugged her tightly.
“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart.”
I turned away for a second.
Dad had lived alone since Mom died six years earlier.
He still kept her favorite ceramic turkey on the kitchen windowsill every November.
He still set two coffee mugs out some mornings before remembering she was gone.
The idea of him spending Thanksgiving alone because my wife was embarrassed by his jacket made me furious all over again.
Dad's kitchen table only seated four.
It was perfect.
We spread everything out.
Dad found paper napkins.
Emily turned on an old radio.
I carved the turkey.
Within twenty minutes, the small house smelled like Thanksgiving.
Dad kept shaking his head.
“You shouldn't have done this.”
“Yes, I should.”
“Karen will be angry.”
“She already is.”
Dad looked at me carefully.
“I don't want to cause problems in your marriage.”
I put down the carving fork.
“You didn't.”
He didn't answer.
My phone began vibrating.
Karen.
I ignored it.
Then another call.
Then another.
Finally, a text appeared.
WHERE ARE YOU?
I almost replied.
Then I decided she knew exactly where I was.
Emily's phone buzzed next.
She looked at the screen.
“Mom.”
“You don't have to answer.”
Emily hesitated.
Then she did.
“Hi.”
I could hear Karen's voice from across the table.
Sharp.
Fast.
Angry.
Emily's expression hardened.
“No, Dad didn't force me.”
Pause.
“Because I wanted to come.”
Another pause.
Then Emily said something that made Dad look down.
“Grandpa shouldn't eat Thanksgiving dinner alone because Grandma thinks he smells bad.”
Apparently Karen shouted.
Emily pulled the phone away from her ear.
“I'm not discussing this if you're yelling.”
She ended the call.
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“This is getting out of hand.”
I looked at him.
“No. This should have gotten out of hand years ago.”
That sentence surprised even me.
Dad noticed.
“What does that mean?”
I thought about it.
Karen had made comments before.
Small ones.
“Does Jack have to wear that jacket?”
“Your father could at least clean up before coming over.”
“Why does he always talk about engines?”
“Could he not park that old truck in front when my parents visit?”
I had laughed some of them off.
Others I ignored.
Once, years earlier, Karen told me Dad made her parents uncomfortable because he was “too blue-collar.”
I had told her not to be snobbish.
Then I moved on.
Maybe moving on had been the problem.
The doorbell rang.
All three of us stopped.
Dad frowned.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
He went to the door.
Tyler stood outside.
My twenty-four-year-old son held a store-bought cheesecake in one hand and his girlfriend Maya held a bottle of sparkling cider.
“Please tell me there's still turkey.”
Emily burst out laughing.
Dad stared.
“What are you doing here?”
Tyler stepped inside.
“Mom called me and told me Dad ruined Thanksgiving.”
He looked at me.
“Then Emily texted me what actually happened.”
Maya hugged Dad.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Dalton.”
Dad looked overwhelmed.
“You kids didn't have to come.”
Tyler put the cheesecake on the counter.
“Yes, we did.”
Now we needed more chairs.
Dad brought in two folding chairs from the garage.
We crowded around the little table.
And somehow, despite everything, it became one of the best Thanksgiving meals I could remember.
Dad told stories.
Emily laughed until she cried when he described teaching me to drive stick shift.
Tyler argued that Grandpa had given him the same terrible lesson.
Maya asked Dad about restoring old cars.
Nobody complained about grease.
Nobody cared that the plates didn't match.
Nobody cared that we were drinking cider from coffee mugs.
Halfway through dinner, Dad sat back.
He looked around the table.
His eyes were wet.
“Your mother would have loved this.”
Nobody spoke for a few seconds.
Then Emily reached across and squeezed his hand.
I felt my phone vibrate again.
This time the caller was Harold.
Karen's father.
I answered.
“Hello?”
His voice was quieter than I expected.
“Rick.”
“Harold.”
“We need to talk.”
I looked around the table.
“Not tonight.”
“I think you should hear something.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
He lowered his voice.
“Karen told us your father canceled because he wasn't feeling well.”
I stared at the wall.
“She said what?”
“That he was sick.”
Of course she had.
Harold continued.
“When Diane asked why you took the food, Karen said you'd become irrational.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
“Did she tell you she called Dad last night and told him not to come?”
Silence.
“No.”
“She told him your wife didn't want to sit across from a mechanic who smells like a repair shop.”
Another silence.
This one lasted longer.
Finally, Harold said, “Rick, I never said that.”
“I know.”
“Neither did Diane.”
“I figured.”
His voice became uncomfortable.
“I've known Jack twenty-five years. I don't care what he smells like.”
That almost made me smile.
Then he added, “Karen has been... difficult today.”
“What does that mean?”
“She accused us of taking your side.”
I leaned back.
“You asked what happened?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She didn't like the question.”
I rubbed my face.
Harold sighed.
“I don't want to interfere in your marriage.”
“Then don't.”
“But I think there are things you should know.”
My attention sharpened.
“What things?”
Before he could answer, someone shouted in the background.
Karen.
Apparently she had realized he was calling me.
Harold lowered his voice quickly.
“This isn't the first time she's tried to keep Jack away.”
My entire body went still.
“What?”
“We'll talk later.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Dad noticed my expression.
“What happened?”
I looked at him.
“Did Karen ever tell you not to come to something before?”
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
“Dad.”
His face changed.
“Rick, tonight is going well.”
“How many times?”
He looked down at his plate.
Emily stopped eating.
Tyler leaned forward.
Finally, Dad whispered.
“A few.”
My chest tightened.
“A few?”
He nodded.
“Birthdays. Dinners. That anniversary party last year.”
My fork hit the table.
“You told me you had the flu.”
Dad's voice was quiet.
“Karen said you had enough going on.”
I stood.
I couldn't sit anymore.
For years, my father had been disappearing from family events.
And every time, I had accepted the excuse.
Work.
Headache.
Weather.
Fatigue.
Now I understood.
They hadn't always been his excuses.
Some belonged to my wife.
I walked toward the window.
Snow had started falling outside.
Behind me, Dad said gently, “Rick, don't let anger make decisions for you.”
I turned.
“I'm not angry because she insulted you today.”
He watched me.
“I'm angry because she has been removing you from my life one invitation at a time.”
Nobody spoke.
My phone buzzed again.
A message from Karen.
COME HOME NOW. WE NEED TO DISCUSS WHAT YOU DID.
I read it twice.
Then I typed four words.
May you like
No.
We need to discuss what you did.
