I locked my wife in the pantry under the stairs

eyes,” he says to Emily.

Emily smiles faintly.

“She has her own.”

Dad laughs.

A real laugh.

The first I have ever heard.

One year after the pantry, Emily invites me to dinner.

Not in the old house. In her new apartment in Asheville, with Nora’s toys on the rug and a small kitchen that smells of tomatoes, basil, and warm bread. There is no head of the table.continue reading …