I’d learned long ago that defending myself usually led to another lecture.
But the night of his birthday changed everything.
I’d driven nearly two hours from Minneapolis to Rochester, determined to enjoy dinner without another family argument.
As I approached my parents’ house, I noticed the familiar signs of neglect.
The paint around the porch was peeling.
One of the outdoor lights flickered.
The flowerbeds my mother once maintained so carefully looked overgrown.
Still, the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary drifting from the kitchen brought back childhood memories.
My mother, Karen, opened the door.
“Lucas! I’m glad you came.”
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