My husband knew better.
And that was what made his silence so unforgivable.
My father stood in our entryway holding an old blue cooler repaired with duct tape. My mother clutched three jars of homemade peach preserves against her faded cardigan.
They had just traveled fourteen hours on a Greyhound bus from Missouri.
Their knees hurt. Their eyes were tired. My father had been coughing since somewhere outside St. Louis.
But they were smiling.
Because they had finally arrived at their daughter’s beautiful house.
**The house they had purchased with their life savings before I ever met my husband.**
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