I knew my dad well enough to know he hadn’t meant for that to sting me, but it did. About my own impact on both their young lives, and the terrifying prospect of what the future for our family held.

“Are you saying you don’t want to be with Mom anymore?”

“Not at all. I’ll always want to be with your mom, that’s never changed one bit. But what I mean is . . .” He struggled for a moment. “It’s not right for me to keep her to myself. She should be out in the world, exploring. Having all eyes on her again. Not hanging around Christmas with someone who’s . . . always been old.”

“Did Mom say that?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know that’s what she wants?”

“Look, honey. Dana’s the one who decided to go to Missouri.”

“She said she tried to come home sooner, but you thought she should stay gone.”

This caught him by surprise. “She told you that?” I nodded. He sat back, tapping the tips of his fingers against the Formica. “Only because I thought . . . I thought she might be coming back home out of habit. And I wanted her to come home for me.”

At that moment, Dad was about as vulnerable as I’d ever seen him. It moved me and before I realized it, I’d hopped off my counter stool and wrapped my arms around his neck. He hugged me back for several moments. Then he exhaled and we parted and I kissed his scratchy cheek. He smiled at me.

“Mom loves you, Dad,” I said with conviction. “I know it.”

Dad nodded once, but I saw he wasn’t as certain as I was. He turned to signal to Mitzi to bring the check.

As I was standing by the register waiting for Mitzi to ring up the order for Mrs. Buzzard, my attention fell on the tray of Christmas Jammies—which would forever be Jammie Dodgers for me now—and it occurred to me that I didn’t have a Christmas present for Arthur. In the spirit of “what do you get the boy who has everything?” I made a separate purchase of every last Christmas Jammie Dodger there was and had them put in one of the café’s russet-colored gable boxes. I’d put a red bow on it later, dress it up.

Dad gave me a funny look. “Didn’t you just eat?”

“These are for Arthur,” I explained with as casual a tone as I could muster. “They’re his favorites.”

In life, there was possibly no more annoying and uncomfortable look than that from a parent when a potential “young love” romance was involved. Nails-on-a-chalkboard level of awful. I chose to ignore the one my father gave me right then.