Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two

I let it ring three times before I answered.

“You were seen at the bank with David Vance this morning,” Gerald said.

His voice was loud and raspy, scraping through the speaker like dry oak.

“Good evening, Gerald,” I said.

“Don’t call me Gerald,” he barked.

“You lost the right to call me anything when you walked out of my house.”

“You changed the locks on the doors while I was working my shift at the gas station,” I said.

He laughed, a sharp sound with no humor in it.