“You didn’t call,” I said.
“Oh, sweetheart.” My mother waved her hand. “Don’t make a big thing of it.”
My father appeared beside her.
Sixty-eight. Retired insurance adjuster. Tall. Broad. Gray buzz cut. A windbreaker zipped up to his chin. He walked around the front of the Pilot and stood next to my mother with his hands on his hips.
Ezoic
He looked at my house.
He looked at me.
“Family doesn’t need reservations,” he said.
I remember staring at him.
“Actually,” I said, “when it’s somebody else’s house, they do.”
He gave me that look.
The look. The one I’ve been getting since I was six. Head tilted. Lips pressed together. Eyebrows raised. Paternal disappointment.
“Still so sensitive,” he said.
Within an hour, my peaceful house looked like a crowded airport terminal.
Ezoic
Melissa claimed my premium guest suite before I’d even offered anybody a bedroom.
