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

I folded napkins.

Three folds and a tuck.

The lake house kitchen had the same green subway tile backsplash it had when I was twelve. Copper pots hung from a rack over the island, ordered from a Williams Sonoma catalog in 1998 and never once used for cooking. A wooden clock above the stove ticked loudly enough to make every silence feel measured. There continue reading …