At 3 AM, My Daughter Texted

the recliner the way old men do. Rachel kept jumping up for platters, avoiding my eyes, knowing on some level that something was off and not wanting to know what.

At 7:30 the doorbell rang.

Rachel went. I heard the cold come in, heard the courier’s voice, “Delivery for the residents of fourteen Birchwood Court.” Heard her say, confused, “On Christmas continue reading …