“Dad, these are crooked.”
“They’re artistic,” I said.
“They are dishonest.”
He smiled at me from the door, with his cell phone in one hand, and I felt something warm and firm behind the ribs. My son. My whole world.
“Dad, these are crooked.”
I went down and squeezed his shoulder. “Are you happy?”
“A Lot.” My daughter looked at her phone and her smile wavered for a second. “I’ll be right back.”
Lily went out into the hallway and lowered her voice. I was able to capture fragments of the conversation.
“How did you get my number? Stop calling me!”
I was convinced that it was nothing. Now teenagers have their lives secret, and I promised myself years ago that I would give him the privacy I never had as a child.
“I’ll be right back.”
Still, it was the third discreet call this month.
Earlier that week, I walked into the kitchen and she slid a brown paper folder from the table into her backpack with a fluid movement, as if she had practiced.
