know, Lauren. I just prefer being prepared.”
He straightened his passport again.
Beth entered the kitchen carrying two coffee mugs. She took one look at him and exchanged a concerned glance with me.
We’d been sharing those looks frequently since Mom died two years earlier.
Dad was eighty-one, but his mind remained sharp. He completed difficult crossword puzzles in ink, drove himself to the grocery store, and regularly defeated both of us at cribbage.
Still, losing Mom had changed him.
He had become quieter, more cautious, and strangely uncomfortable in
