My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
My father picked up a red plastic gas can and shook it, listening to the slosh of the fuel inside. “Miller retired three years ago down to Delaware.”
I stood near the door, my back against the cold wooden frame. “Why did he move down there?”
My father didn’t answer. He set the gas can down on a wooden crate and reached for a rag to wipe his fingers.
I walked back into the kitchen to find my father standing at the white porcelain sink, scrubbing his knuckles with a block of yellow soap. The smell of lemon bleach and old grease filled the small room.
“Your mother is upstairs,” he said, not turning around. “She took two of her pills.”
“She shouldn’t have said those things to him,” I said, leaning against the counter near the refrigerator.
My father rinsed his hands under the hot water, the pipe rattling behind the drywall with a familiar, dull thud. He dried his skin on a blue dish towel, taking his time with each finger.
