And for the first time, I was glad.
Brian moved into his condo by the lake. I heard he sold it six months later. I heard he moved out of state for a new job. I don’t know if any of it is true. I don’t ask anymore.
My father comes over every Sunday now. He fixes things that aren’t broken. He sits in the kitchen and drinks his coffee and tells me stories about Grandma Lena that I’ve never heard before. How she drove a tractor at twelve. How she slapped a priest once for being rude to her sister. How she paid off that mirror’s twin, a little round one, a quarter a week, for her own daughter, my aunt, who still has it hanging in her hallway in Ohio.
Last Sunday, I asked him something I’d been wondering since the courthouse.
