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The doorbell rang as I hung up the phone, and then I heard my father’s deep, imposing voice fill our entryway.
I stood and walked slowly into the unlit hallway unnoticed as my wife, Allison, hugged my father and then took his coat and bag. Though she’d only met him once, at my mom’s funeral, I wanted her to share my dislike for the man. From what I’d told her, Allison knew enough about him to warrant a little enmity, or so I thought, but she cheerfully chatted away, asking him about the traffic through Primm Valley and the weather on Cajon Pass.
I heard my father’s voice but hardly recognized him. His face was lean and bony, and his hair, thin on the top of his head, had gone almost completely white.
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