Parenting
“What kind of matters?” I asked.
He paused briefly before answering. “Matters that will require your full attention, Ms. Calloway. When you are ready.”
We arranged to meet on Friday.
My name is Sophie Calloway. I was thirty-seven, working as a hospital administrator in a medium-sized Ohio city I’d moved to at twenty-four and never left. My father, Raymond Calloway, lived forty minutes away in the gray colonial home where I grew up, the one with the bright red front door and the creek behind it that had “eaten” my shoe when I was a little girl—or at least that was the story I insisted on telling.
My parents divorced when I was eleven. Mom remarried and relocated to Phoenix. Dad stayed exactly where he was. He spent the next thirty-two years living in that same house while working as a contractor, adding rooms and decks to other people’s homes while letting his own age comfortably around him.
