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

“I think being quiet at a table for thirty years is its own kind of choice.”

I looked down at the chipped paint on my porch railing.

“He said Sasha,” I said.

“I know.”

“There is no Sasha.”

“I know.”

The words were simple, but something in my chest loosened. Not healed. Loosened.

Renata asked if I was going to call my father.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Whatever you continue reading …