I looked at my sister.
She was looking at the bacon. Not at me. Her face a little red.
She was asking.
She was waiting for me to say no.
And she was ready to accept it.
“Yes,” I said. “You can borrow it.”
Melissa looked up.
“Really?”
“Really,” I said. “You asked.”
She smiled.
The first real smile I’d seen from my sister in years.
Not triumphant. Not smug.
Just grateful.
At the table, my father stood up.
He held his coffee cup. The one from Duck.
“I’d like to say something,” he said.
Everybody looked at him.
He’s not a speechmaker. He never has been. At Thanksgiving, he says grace in eleven words and sits down.
“Eight months ago,” he said, “we showed up at Morgan’s door at ten-thirty at night. Without calling.”
My mother looked at her plate.
“We were going to move in,” my father said. “Without asking. Because we thought she’d never say no.”
