“Has that man finally stopped his scrubbing? I cannot stand how the entire living room smells like a roadside tavern right now.”
I heard those words the instant I stepped over the threshold of my own house, my heavy suitcase suddenly feeling even heavier than it had when I dragged it through the airport. I had returned much sooner than planned from my extended business trip to Salt Lake City, where I had spent nearly a month closing a major logistics contract for the technology company where I work as a senior project director
I was supposed to be gone for two full months, but since the project had moved ahead far faster than anyone expected, I decided to come home without warning and surprise my husband, Kyle. I never imagined that I would be the one left with my heart broken.
From the silent foyer of my home in the wealthy suburban edge of Scottsdale, I saw a scene that broke something inside me. My father, Norman, a man who had spent sixty-seven years working the land on a small farm in rural Nebraska, was down on his hands and knees on my polished hardwood floor.
He was desperately trying to clean up a huge spill of thick savory stew that had leaked out from a woven basket he had carried in, using only a worn-out kitchen rag. Around his knees were several broken eggs, a pile of flour tortillas wrapped in paper, and the remains of a shattered glass jar filled with his famous homemade preserves.
