Five months after Henry died, my dad was visiting and his trip was to include his seventieth birthday. I told him we wouldn’t be celebrating it. My dad’s seventieth birthday! My dad who’d taken such incredible, loving care of Henry. He was cool about it because he knew I was insane at the time, and I’d (hopefully) banked enough non-insane and kind behavior over the years to get away with it. But I’m now realizing I should apologize. Wonder if I’ll manage to do it before he reads it here!
