Six
AFTER A QUIET EVENING reading—in this case, one of the books on love and marriage recommended by the Archbishop—I am just turning out the lights when my phone rings.
I smile and answer without looking at the caller ID. “Hey,” I say. “I didn’t think—”
“Dad!” says an out-of-breath chipmunk.
“Gladys?” I say, furrowing my brow.
“Are you still up?” Now I can hear the panic in her voice.
Something’s definitely wrong. Gladys is many things. Easily panicked isn’t one of them.
As calmly as I can, I say, “Sure, honey, what’s up?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“Of course,” I say. “Where are you?”
“I’m right outside. Can I come in please?”
I rush to the door as I say “of course” and hang up. I open the door and Gladys rolls through, obviously distraught.
“Dad,” she says, tears sliding down her
