Dad and I were sitting at the table, stewing, our untouched breakfast congealing in front of us, when he shuffled in. He was still dressed in yesterday’s rumpled clothes and his face was all stubbly. Dad breathed a long sigh of relief. I watched and waited. He hovered in the doorway, pausing, looking at me. When he finally came in, he scooted my chair out so I was facing him, and then he kneeled down on the kitchen floor tile and flung his arms around me. It was the first time I felt like things might actually be okay. “Dad told me about Patrick,” I whispered. He held on a little longer, then pulled back to look at me. “Lucy Rose Moore,” he said firmly, “you are not Patrick. Patrick was an idiot.” Well, I wasn’t expecting that. Papa continued. “Patrick was irresponsible and reckless and didn’t know the first thing about taking care of himself.
