Not once.
I never understood why.
When I was little, he talked openly about missing Hawaii—the rainstorms, fruit from roadside stands, and birds calling before sunrise.
As I got older, though, I started noticing Mom’s reaction whenever he mentioned it.
She’d go quiet.
Sometimes she’d leave the room.
Once, after Dad said he’d like to see the ocean there again, she put her plate in the sink so hard I thought it might crack.
Later, I confronted him.
“Why does Mom get angry every time you talk about Hawaii?”
Dad was folding a dish towel.
“She’s not angry.”
“She definitely is, Dad.”
He gave me a weary look.
“Try to understand your mother, Annie. If you knew the whole story, you wouldn’t be angry with her.”
I wish I’d asked him what he meant.
Two weeks ago, Dad was driving home when another car crossed into his lane.
He never made it back.
Some events remain impossible for your mind to accept even after your body has already begun living through them.
Dad’s shoes were still beside the garage door.
His coffee mug remained in the cabinet.
His jacket still hung from its hook.
But he was gone.
Mom and I were sorting through sympathy cards when the delivery arrived.
The box was enormous.
The driver left it on the porch and asked for my signature. At first, I almost told him he had the wrong house.
Then I saw the label.
GILBERT.
Our address.
Honolulu origin.
It had been shipped three days before Dad’s accident.
There was no return address I recognized.
I stared at it long enough for the driver to ask if everything was okay.
“Yeah.”
It wasn’t.
I dragged the package inside.
“Mom?”
She entered the kitchen carrying a stack of condolence cards.
Then she saw the box.
The cards shifted in her hands.
“Where did that come from?”
“Hawaii.”
Her eyes went straight to the shipping label.
