My former father-in-law.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
This was not the Richard I remembered.
The Richard I knew had been broad-shouldered and strong, a carpenter whose hands could build almost anything. He always smelled faintly of cedar wood, fresh coffee, and sawdust. He laughed loudly, worked hard, and carried himself with quiet dignity.
The man sitting before me looked as though life had slowly carved pieces out of him.
His clothes hung loosely from his body. His cheeks were hollow. His fingernails were overgrown. Worse still, there was a dark stain across his trousers.
When he realized I had noticed, he immediately lowered his eyes.
“Claire,” he said softly. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”
Something inside me cracked.
“What happened?” I asked. “Why are you here?”
