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Later, I confronted him.
As I got older, I noticed Mom’s reactions.
“Why does Mom get angry every time you talk about Hawaii?”
Dad was folding a dish towel.
“She’s not angry.”
“She definitely is, Dad.”
He gave me a tired look.
“Try to understand your mother, Annie. If you knew the whole story, you wouldn’t be angry with her.”
I wish I’d asked what he meant.
“If you knew the whole story, you wouldn’t be angry with her.”
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***
Two weeks ago, Dad was driving home when another car crossed into his lane.
He never made it back.
There are events your mind refuses to understand even after your body has already started living inside them.
Dad’s shoes were still beside the garage door.
His coffee mug was in the cabinet.
He never made it back.
His jacket hung from the same hook.
But he was gone.
Mom and I were still sorting through sympathy cards when the delivery arrived.