He would kiss my cheek, walk straight into the kitchen, and lift the lids off every pot like he was inspecting a restaurant.
“Please tell me you made peach pie.”
“I did,” I’d say. “But wash your hands first.”
He always laughed like that was the funniest rule in the world.
After lunch, he’d fix something around the house. A loose cabinet hinge. A porch light. A window that stuck every winter. Then he’d fall asleep in Walter’s old recliner until it slowly stopped being Walter’s chair and became Knox’s.
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