is plenty. You know what they say about fish and houseguests.”
“You’re our father, not a guest,” Beth replied.
Dad smiled affectionately, then reached inside his jacket.
He pulled out a little silver keychain shaped like airplane wings.
I’d seen those wings throughout my childhood.
They were small, smooth from years of handling, with a nearly faded number engraved on the back.
When I was six, I’d asked where they came from.
“An old job,” Dad had answered.
Whenever I requested more details, he changed the subject.
Mom did the
