The Chain on the Door
Two weeks later, my father came to my apartment.
He did not call ahead. He simply knocked, hard and impatient, the same way he had knocked on my bedroom door when I was a teenager and wanted privacy.
I opened the door but left the chain lock fastened.
He looked older than he had at Sunday dinner. His gray hair was disheveled, and dark circles sat beneath his eyes.
“Your mother wants to see the kids,” he said.
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “You cannot cut us off over one meal.”
“One meal?” I repeated.
He looked past me into the apartment. Noah’s sneakers sat near the couch. Lily’s drawing of our family was taped to the refrigerator. In the picture, there were three people: me, Noah, and Lily. No one else.
His eyes stayed on it.
“You’re turning them against us,” he said.
