On Thanksgiving Day, I arrived at my daughter’s house unannounced and saw my grandson shivering outside in fifteen-degree weather, wearing only a T-shirt and shorts. Inside, the whole family was sitting at the holiday table, enjoying turkey and laughing in the warmth. Enraged by their betrayal, I kicked down the door and uttered six words that made their faces turn pale.
But that was only the beginning of the justice that changed their lives forever. My phone buzzed against the dashboard. A text from my neighbor.
Saw police cars at the Hendersons again. Domestic situation. Made me think of you and your family worries.
I stared at those words while my old Chevrolet idled in the driveway. The Hendersons. Martha used to worry about their grandson, too, back when she was still alive to worry about anything at all.
Now it was just me and that gnawing feeling in my gut whenever I thought about Leona’s marriage. The clock read 2:30 p.m. Time to go.
I shifted into reverse and backed out onto Miller Street. Snow had started falling an hour ago, fat flakes that stuck to everything and made the roads treacherous. The radio crackled with weather warnings as I turned onto I-75 south toward Cincinnati.
A classic rock station, the same one Martha and I always listened to. Led Zeppelin was playing something heavy that matched my mood. The passenger seat held two gift bags, one with a new baseball glove for Amos, genuine leather that cost me more than I wanted to spend.
The other had comic books, the kind with superheroes he’d been reading since he was twelve. Now eighteen, he probably thought he was too old for them, but I remembered being eighteen. You’re never too old for heroes.
“Family is all we have left,” Martha used to say when she’d catch me grumbling about holiday visits. She’d been right then, and she was right now, even though her voice only existed in my memory. After losing her six months ago, every gathering felt precious and fragile.
The windshield wipers struggled against the accumulating snow. Other cars crawled along at half the speed limit, hazard lights blinking like nervous fireflies. I kept both hands on the wheel and maintained a steady forty miles per hour.
No point arriving at all if I ended up in a ditch. Exit signs counted down the miles to Cincinnati. I tried calling Leona’s house, wanting to let them know I was coming, maybe surprise them less dramatically than just showing up.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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