yourself.”
Then he left.
I assumed he would cool down.
He didn’t.
I called the following week.
No answer.
Then a month later.
His birthday.
Christmas.
The anniversary of Mom’s death.
Eventually, I stopped calling.
Now, five years later, he finally spoke again as I pulled into a hospital parking lot.
“You work here?”
“Yes.”
He straightened.
Something almost hopeful appeared in his expression.
“You went back to medical school.”
“I didn’t say that.”
The hope disappeared.
I got out of the car.
Dad followed me inside.
When I walked
