I asked him again: “Coming to Christmas dinner tomorrow?”
Same answer. “I’ll stay here. You’ve had me on your hands long enough.”
Dad had stopped treatments.
He showed me the big tree in the home’s foyer: white lights, dozens of holiday cards made by school kids.
“There’s the twins’ card,” I said.
Dad pointed at the drawing of a brown blob turkey, fluffy mashed potato clouds, an orange pumpkin pie circle. “What’s this?”
“Ask them tomorrow.”