The morning my neighbors called the authorities on my 72-year-old dad, they were convinced he’d been taking in dogs and “getting rid of them” for money. The whole street showed up to watch. When the garage door started to lift, no one was ready for what was inside.
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I’m Pete, 42. I’m married, blessed with two wonderful kids, and live three hours away. Every six months or so, I drive back to my hometown and stay with my dad for a few days.
My dad, Walter, has lived alone since my mom passed away 26 years ago. He never remarried. Never sold the house. And never changed the yellow curtains Mom picked for the kitchen, even after the sun faded them pale as old butter.
