Move out by Monday. Your sister's twins need a bigger space. That was the whole text from my dad.
No. Hey, no. Can we talk?
Nothing. Just an order. Like he was telling the bartender to change the channel.
I read it standing behind the bar at my own place, wiping down pint glasses while the Sunday game played on mute. My 10-year-old daughter, Emma, was in the corner booth with her math workbook open, sneakers swinging, highlighter cap between her teeth. That house was the first place she'd ever called home after the divorce.
