My bicycle chain, which snapped on a chaotic Tuesday, would be mysteriously repaired and oiled by Thursday dawn, though nobody ever saw him holding a wrench.

Whenever my mother’s morning inspections stretched too long and turned sharp, he’d materialize in the kitchen doorway, jingling his car keys, ready to leave for work an hour early.

Sometimes his mere presence siphoned the dangerous electricity out of the room.

Sometimes it failed.

Either way, he always left.

I want to be fair to him, but I also want to be honest, and those are two different assignments.