Mom shook her head.
"Not usually."
"He wasn't looking at the beach."
Dad left Hawaii at twenty because an opportunity opened on the mainland.
Nobody threw him out.
His foster family encouraged him to go.
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He expected to return.
Then one year became several.
Oregon became a job.
The job became a life.
Nobody threw him out.
Then Mom.
Then me.
"So why didn't he go back?"
Mom looked toward the window.
"At first, money."
That made sense.
"Then?"
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"Work."
"And after that?"
"So why didn't he go back?"
She was quiet.
"He thought he'd waited too long."
"Too long for what?"
"To show his face."
I frowned.
"They were his family."
"He thought he'd waited too long."
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"He didn't use that word easily." Mom picked at the corner of a condolence card. "The longer he stayed away, the more embarrassed he became about staying away."
It sounded ridiculous.
It also sounded exactly like Dad.
"He didn't use that word easily."
"Where do you fit into this?"
Mom looked at me.
"What?"
"The whole story. Dad told me I'd understand you if I knew it."
She pushed her chair back.
"Where do you fit into this?"
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"When we were first married, he compared everything to Hawaii."
"Everything?"
"Rain. Fish. Coffee. Sunsets."
Despite myself, I smiled.
"That sounds like Dad."
"It was exhausting."
The smile disappeared.
