Then he looked toward the road again and whispered, “He says I get confused when too many people visit.”
I still remember how quietly he said it. Not angry. Embarrassed. Like he was repeating something he’d heard so many times he’d started believing it. I set the box of kolaches on the counter and asked him when he’d last talked to our sister. Dad frowned and said he wasn’t sure. Greg always told him everyone was busy. Greg always had a reason.
We sat at the kitchen table for almost two hours. Dad barely touched his coffee. He kept glancing at the clock, then the driveway. Finally he opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of unopened birthday cards, Christmas cards, and letters. Some were from me. Some were from relatives in three different states. He’d never seen them. Greg had been collecting the mail first and deciding what Dad needed to read. The worst part wasn’t the mail. It was hearing Dad say, “I thought everybody stopped checking on me.”
I called our sister from the kitchen. When Dad heard her voice, he started crying. So did she. Within a week the three of us were visiting regularly, together when we could. Funny how fast the story changed once Greg couldn’t control all the conversations. Every concern we raised had an explanation. Every missing piece of information was supposedly a misunderstanding.
There wasn’t some dramatic showdown. Real life is messier than that. What happened was that more people started paying attention. Dad’s finances, his mail, his appointments—none of it rested with one person anymore. Greg hated it. Dad loved it.
The next spring I stopped by unannounced again. Dad was sitting on the porch in the afternoon sun with a plate of kolaches and three empty coffee mugs beside him. He grinned when he saw me pulling into the driveway.
“Good,” he said. “You’re early. Your sister’s already here, and we’re waiting on the rest of the family.”