was enough.
He stood beside the car looking at the house.
Dad walked down the front path.
Neither rushed.
Neither cried dramatically.
Neither delivered a speech.
They stopped two steps apart.
Luis looked at him.
“You got short.”
Dad stared.
“You got bald.”
Then Luis opened his arms.
Dad hugged him.
Forty years disappeared badly.
Awkwardly.
Imperfectly.
Which was exactly how they should have disappeared.
Later, at dinner, Luis studied Derek and me as though we were historical artifacts.
“So you’re the accountant.”
“That would be me.”
“And you’re the
