The light in the kitchen doubled as the door eased forward and the scent of my father’s cigarettes filled the room; he was home from work at the usual time. He carried a garment bag over his shoulder, smiling sheepishly at me while clutching his cigarette between his lips. “Why are you just getting home now?” I asked, the confusion clear in my voice. His mother passed away that morning, and I received the call seven hours earlier. I stood with the full room between us, my feet rooted but prepared to retreat, not yet sure of the mood he might be in.
“I had to go buy a suit for the funeral.”
He was too calm, too cheery for this occasion.
I had long since grown accustomed to trying to make my way out of the house by four o’clock each afternoon, in anticipation of his typical state of anger. For fifteen years I had observed his explosive temper, and although I had learned to take it in stride, it was still something I feared being faced with.
