When I walk through the front door, I expect the usual silence—maybe Margaret in the kitchen or Dad holed up in his office. Instead, the sound of low voices stops me in my tracks.
I pause just outside the kitchen, my hand still resting on the doorknob, listening.
Dad and Margaret are talking—whispering—and their voices are tense, the kind of strained conversation you have when you think no one else is listening. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but something about the way Dad says my name makes my heart skip a beat.
“I don’t know, Margaret,” Dad sighs, his voice heavy with frustration. “Heaven’s pushing me away more every day. I’m trying... but it’s like she’s already given up on this family.”
Margaret’s reply is too soft for me to make out, but the words hit me like a punch to the gut. *
