The sizzle of steaks on the grill created a rhythmic backdrop to the warm summer evening, but that comfortable sound couldn’t mask the edge in my father’s voice as it cut through the backyard chatter. I was balancing a plate of potato salad and corn on the cob, weaving between clusters of relatives and neighbors, when I heard him call out from his station at the grill, tongs in one hand and a beer in the other.
“Hey, Madison,” he said, loud enough that conversations around us faltered and died. His tone carried that particular quality I’d learned to recognize over the years—the one that signaled he was about to say something designed to get a laugh at someone else’s expense. Usually mine. “You’re old enough to pay rent or get out. This isn’t a charity I’m running here.”
