Chapter 14 - DAD GAVE ME THE KEYS BACK A SECOND TIME
In November, Dad came to my condo carrying a small cardboard box.
“What is that?”
“Something stupid.”
“Encouraging.”
He set it on the counter.
Inside were old spare keys.
House.
Shed.
Printing shop.
Mom’s former Lexus.
Then a Toyota key.
I froze.
“Where did you get that?”
Dad looked ashamed.
Three years earlier, when I bought the Toyota, I left the spare at my parents’ house during a work trip.
I forgot about it.
Dad kept it.
“You had a spare the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you grab mine on Christmas?”
He looked down.
“Because taking something from your hand felt different.”
I stared.
Ugly.
Honest.
“Different how?”
“Like I was still your father.”
My anger softened without disappearing.
Dad continued:
“When you stood up and left, I felt like you were telling me I didn’t matter anymore.”
“I was telling you the gift was cruel.”
“I know that now.”
“You could’ve apologized.”
“I know.”
“Instead you took my keys.”
“I know.”
He slid the spare across the counter.
“I don’t want access to anything that requires you to pretend I own it.”
I picked up the key.
“That is surprisingly therapy-sounding.”
“I hate therapy.”
“I know.”
“Your mother says it’s working.”
“She may be right.”
He smiled.
Then he took something else from the box.
The pink piggy bank.
My $1.99 Christmas gift.
“You left this at the house.”
“I thought I brought it home.”
Apparently I had taken it Christmas morning, then returned it during one of the later family meetings and forgotten.
Dad placed it between us.
“Your mother wants to throw it away.”
“Why?”
“She hates looking at it.”
I laughed softly.
“Good.”
Dad almost smiled.
“Do you want it?”
I considered.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I turned the little ceramic pig in my hands.
“Because it’s cheap enough to be educational.”
Dad laughed.
Then became serious.
“Are you coming Christmas?”
There it was.
The question.
Not demand.
No guilt.
“Maybe.”
Dad nodded.
“Okay.”
He left.
That evening Chelsea called.
“If you don’t go, I won’t.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Make your decision depend on mine.”
She groaned.
“You’re exhausting now.”
“Therapy.”
“I hate therapy.”
“Family trait.”
Chelsea laughed.
Then said:
“I want to go.”
“Then go.”
“Even if you don’t?”
“Especially if I don’t.”
May you like
Another new thing.
We were learning how to be sisters without constantly checking which daughter stood closer to Mom and Dad.
