At 6:30 on a freezing Thursday morning, my older sister Vanessa called and told me our father had died during the night. There was only one rather obvious problem with her announcement: Dad was sitting three feet away at my kitchen table in his navy flannel robe, drinking fresh coffee and casually stealing bacon from my plate.
Vanessa hated early mornings, so seeing her name on my phone before sunrise immediately made me think something terrible had happened. Dad reached across the table for another strip of bacon while I answered.
“Vanessa?”
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