The brass latch on my grandfather’s old doctor’s bag had been crooked for longer than I could remember.

Dad gave me that bag when I started medical school.

Then, when I walked away from medicine, he stopped speaking to me.

Five years later, he stood inside my apartment, staring at that same bag sitting open on my dining table.

What was inside looked nothing like what he remembered.

And for the first time, Dad seemed to realize that maybe I hadn’t ruined my life after all.

The phone call came early that morning.

I recognized the number instantly.

“Dad?”

Silence.

Five years of silence, actually.

Then he finally spoke.

“Give me your address. I’m coming to get you. You’ve wasted enough time.”

I closed my eyes.

Dad had always been like this.

Once he made up his mind, discussion became irrelevant.

So I gave him the address.

Four hours later,