Then he heard another knock.
This time, louder.
He threw on his robe and walked downstairs.
The house was dark except for the faint glow of the Christmas tree. Half-empty champagne glasses were still scattered across the kitchen island.
A plate of untouched cookies sat beside the sink.
The decorations that had made the house look warm and beautiful the night before suddenly seemed ridiculous.
The New Year had arrived.
And yet the house felt strangely cold.
My father opened the front door.
There was nobody standing on the porch.
Instead, there was a large brown envelope lying neatly on the welcome mat.
His name was written across it.
ROBERT HAYES
No return address.
No postage.
Just his name.
My father frowned.
He bent down and picked it up.
It was heavier than a normal envelope.
There was something inside.
Several things, actually.
He looked toward the driveway.
Empty.
He looked toward the street.
