same.
Eventually, I stopped asking.
Now, watching him repeatedly rub those silver wings between his fingers, I felt the familiar curiosity return.
“Dad, are you nervous?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you doing that thing with your keychain?”
He looked down as though he hadn’t realized what he was doing.
“Just remembering something.”
“What?”
He tucked the wings away.
“Mostly wondering whether Beth has any blueberry muffins left.”
Beth laughed, and the conversation ended.
That was how Dad handled questions he didn’t want to answer.
By eight-thirty, Beth was
