When he answered, the connection sounded far away, like he’d stepped into another life.
“Dad,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Do you remember where you put the warranty paperwork for the faucet? It’s leaking again.”
A sigh, heavy with annoyance. “Den. Filing cabinet. Second drawer. Under kitchen.”
“Thanks. How’s Paris?”
“Expensive,” he said. “Your mother and I are about to go to dinner. I’ve got to go.”
“Okay,” I replied. “Enjoy.”
I heard rustling, a muted scrape, the soft thump of a phone being shoved into a pocket. I was about to end the call on my side when I heard my mother’s voice, close and irritated.
“Who was that?”
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