yourself.”
Then he left.
I assumed he would cool down.
He didn’t.
I called the following week.
No answer.
Then a month later.
His birthday.
Christmas.
The anniversary of Mom’s death.
Eventually, I stopped calling.
Now, five years later, he finally spoke again as I pulled into a hospital parking lot.
“You work here?”
“Yes.”
He straightened.
Something almost hopeful appeared in his expression.
“You went back to medical school.”
“I didn’t say that.”
The hope disappeared.
I got out of the car.
Dad followed me inside.
When I walked past the elevators leading toward the medical-school offices, he noticed.
“Alyssa.”
“This way.”
We entered another wing.
A sign beside the doorway read:
FAMILY CARE EDUCATION.
Dad read it twice.
Inside were several training stations prepared for a weekend workshop.
One coworker looked up.
“Alyssa, did the transfer bench finally arrive?”
“It’s in my living room.”
She laughed.
“Of course
