I Came Home From Overseas Expecting to See My 1969 Corvette Waiting

“Where’s the car?”

My mother stirred her tea with small, neat circles. Then she said, in a tone so casual it felt like being struck without any wind-up: “Oh. That.”

My father’s knife paused for a moment, not stopped, just considered, and then resumed.

My mother finally raised her eyes to me. They were soft, almost relieved, like someone delivering news they had rehearsed.

“Thanks to your car,” she said, “Andrew finally got the trip of his life.”