The neighbors suddenly seemed very interested in their own yards.
Mom went inside. I turned toward Ray.
He was already walking away.
“Where are you going?”
“Kitchen.”
“Why?”
“Dishes.”
Of course.
Ten minutes after my biological father had tried to buy his way back into my life, Ray was at our sink washing syrup from the birthday-breakfast plates.
I set the wooden box on the counter.
“You know we have a dishwasher.”
“Don’t trust it.”
“You repaired it.”
“Exactly. I know who repaired it.”
I stood next to him.
“Ray.”
He continued scrubbing.
“What?”
“Look at me.”
“Busy.”
“You’re washing a clean plate.”
He glanced down, then placed it in the rack.
“Next plate.”
I knew then.
He was trying not to cry.
So naturally, I made it worse.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“The box.”
“Sure.”
“And the account.”
“Your mom puts money in too.”
“I know.”
“And we’re not anywhere near paying for college, so don’t go applying to some castle.”
