My father stood up at the lake house dinner and raised his glass in fr…

ordered roasted chicken. I ordered salmon. We talked about Marin, about her sons, about books, about the strange relief of saying true things at an ordinary table.

Sometimes we talked about my parents.

Only when one of us needed to.

One evening in April, Renata stirred her iced tea for longer than necessary.

“Your father said your name last Sunday,” she continue reading …