“Your brother chose his path a long time ago,” the letter continued.

“He believed that loud words could cover thin work.

I left you the house and the trust because you know how to build a life that stands up when the wind turns.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the distant sound of a lawnmower two blocks over on Maple Street.

For eight months I had thought Dad was slipping away into confusion, forgetting his statements and misplacing his mail.

I had felt so alone in the kitchen, counting out his forty-five-dollar prescription bottles and worrying over thirty-eight-dollar oil changes for the Buick.