“‘Wishful thinking won’t make it so: don’t waste any more time, energy, or resources on a dead end. You get your point across better by keeping your dignity. Some people just aren’t buying what you’re selling.’”

I thought of something else just then, and when I became aware of Kirstie again I saw that she was sitting back on her heels in front of the cabinet below the sink, as if momentarily frozen in place, her gaze apparently fixed on an unremarkable strip of wood below the sink’s lip.

“Was that really,” she asked, her voice suddenly very quiet, “what it said?”

I could not quite see how to answer her, and I was grateful when the coffeepot switched itself off with its distinct click and Kirstie seemed to forget her question and revive.

What I meant to do next was turn the page quickly, to forget all about horoscopes and Kirstie. This was not a day, after all, when I could afford to be distracted. But somehow, contrary to my intention, I saw my own index finger slide quickly down the page to rest on a crude drawing of a goat.

Dear Capricorn, the text read, don’t be afraid to connect the dots. The path between events that may seem unrelated will soon become clear. With your moon in the fifth house, you will find yourself uniquely positioned to set things in motion.

When I had finished reading, I looked up at the wall. Somewhere, as if far away, Kirstie was stirring something into her cup and making some quiet remark, but I could barely hear it. I looked back down at the paper. I read my horoscope again. The path between events that may seem unrelated will soon become clear …

It was all very odd. The horoscopes had turned out to be something very different than I’d expected them to be. Uniquely positioned, I thought, to set things in motion. As much as I lacked confidence in the source, the message could not reasonably be dismissed. It was not irrelevant at all. Could it be a coincidence, I wondered, that I had received this strange message on this day, the day of my father’s open house? A strange message, undoubtedly, and yet somehow encouraging.

My father—my late father, I should say—and I were not close at the time of his death, and our relationship had not been without its complications—and yet. And yet, I thought, as I rose from my seat and went out into the hallway, between a father and his only son, no matter the circumstances, runs a thread that should not be underestimated.