quiet.
My father was sitting in the living room reading when we entered.
He looked up.
Then stood immediately.
“Thomas?”
The old man smiled nervously.
“Hello, Frank.”
Dad looked like he had seen a ghost too.
Apparently everyone knew this man except me.
“Mary is upstairs,” Dad said quietly.
Thomas swallowed.
“Thank you.”
The climb up the stairs seemed to take forever.
Each step looked painful.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
At the bedroom door, he stopped again.
His hand trembled.
My mother squeezed his shoulder.
Then gently pushed the door open.
