He listened when I was upset. But he rarely offered an opinion.
“It’s your life, Nicky,” he’d say. “You’ll figure out what’s right.”
Ezoic
Now, he reached out and touched the broken wooden frame. Very gently. With one finger. The same way he used to touch my forehead when I was sick, checking for fever.
He ran his finger over the chipped rose.
“He knew what this meant to you,” he said.
It was the first judgmental thing I’d heard him say about Brian since the divorce began.
“Yes,” I said.
Dad stood up. His knees cracked again.
“Did you photograph this?”
“Yes.”
“The faucets? The walls? Everything he ruined in this house?”
Ezoic
“Everything. Claire made me take a video too.”
He nodded slowly.
“Good.”
Something about his expression made me uneasy. He was looking past me, at the hole by the fireplace, and his jaw was set in a way I didn’t recognize. Like he’d made up his mind about something.
