It was about what Dad represented to her.
Rough hands.
Work clothes.
Factory shifts.
A man who spent his life fixing things instead of talking about them.
A man who didn’t fit into the invisible social ranking her family seemed to carry around.
I was still holding the carving knife.
I carefully set it down on the counter.
My wife quietly took my father off our Thanksgiving guest list. When I asked why, she barely hesitated.
