Nathan.
They had been almost inseparable.
Every Saturday morning, they disappeared into the garage together. Dad taught Nathan how to change the oil in a car, sharpen garden shears, patch small holes in drywall, and make grilled cheese without scorching the bread.
Nathan, in return, taught Dad something more important.
How to laugh at himself.
They drank coffee from matching mugs. They repeated the same terrible jokes until Mom and I groaned. They argued over football scores and then forgot what they were arguing about five minutes later.
When Dad died, our house didn’t simply become quieter.
Something inside all of us went quiet too.
For eleven months, I had deliberately avoided thinking about the moment before my wedding ceremony.
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