For twenty uninterrupted years he volunteered for the graveyard shift.

I understood his choice long before I had the vocabulary to say it out loud.

Our house at 7:00 p.m. was a tightly controlled theatrical stage governed by a single ruthless director.

My father had simply found the one exit that didn’t require a screaming match.

He loved us in quiet, invisible tenses.

There would somehow be a slice of cherry pie left wrapped in the fridge with a printed sticky note attached.