I looked at Mom.
She nodded.
“Every time.”
Ruth laughed.
These weren’t stories about some secret version of my father.
They were simply Dad.
“Why did you keep his chair?” I asked.
“Because it was Gilbert’s.”
“For fifty years?”
“People used it.”
She sounded surprised by the question.
“Kids sat in it. Somebody broke its leg once. We fixed it. But whenever anyone wanted to throw it out, Mom said, ‘No. That’s Gilbert’s chair.'”
I touched the worn blue backrest.
“Dad thought he’d stayed away too long.”
“Too long for what?”
“To come back.”
Ruth went silent.
Then she said, “Nobody told him that.”
Mom covered her mouth.
She leaned closer to my phone.
“Ruth?”
“Yes?”
“Were you angry with him?”
“Sometimes.”
Mom closed her eyes.
