He went to the cabinet behind the desk and poured two glasses of the Macallan he kept for the conversations that required it and brought them to the sitting area and sat across from me with the ease of a man returning to furniture that knew him, and he held his glass and looked at it for a moment before he spoke.
"The recording," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"You recorded your brother."
"I recorded a conversation," I said. "My brother was in it."
My father looked at his glass. "He said the first true thing you had said to him in five years."
The sentence sat in the room.
I said nothing.
"He was referring," my father said, "to the apology."
"Yes."
My father turned the glass in his hand. "Was it true."
"Yes," I said.
Another silence.
My father drank. I drank. The Macallan was the sam
