My father was standing at the stove, flipping eggs in a cast-iron skillet.

He had on a pressed weekend sweater over a casual collared shirt.

He smiled when I came into the room, his face completely at ease.

“I made a fresh pot,” Richard said.

“Grab yourself a mug, Leah.”

I went to the cabinet and took down a plain white coffee cup.

I poured the dark roast and pulled out a wooden stool at the kitchen island.

Evelyn sat across from me, tapping out a fast text message on her phone.