Katie,
If you’re reading this, I’ve gone and left before the dishes were done. Your mother will have something to say about that.
I’m writing this at the kitchen table on a Sunday. You’re out in the yard with the kids, trying to get the old swing down off the oak, and Jack’s telling you you’re doing it wrong. You aren’t. You were four when you took the back off the radio to find the man who was talking in it.
A few things I never got around to. The dent in your first car was me, not the kid at school. I should have come to Paris. And you were right to quit that job. I didn’t say so at the time because your mother already had, and I wasn’t going to agree with her twice in one week.
The garage is a mess. Give the tools to Jack. He’ll pretend he knows what they’re for.
Don’t sit in the house. Take the kids to the beach.
Dad

