It was Thanksgiving morning. It had been just the two of us for years, and the air was thick with the comforting smell of roasting turkey and cinnamon when I heard Grace enter the kitchen.
“Could you mash the potatoes, sweetie?” I asked.
Silence. I put down the spoon and turned.
What I saw stopped me cold.
What I saw stopped me cold.
She was standing in the doorway, shaking like a leaf, and her eyes were red-rimmed.
“Dad…” she murmured. “I… I need to tell you something. I won’t be here for Thanksgiving dinner.”
My stomach dropped.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Then she said the sentence that felt like a fist to the chest.
