Checking on Dad

Evie

I drove to my father’s house in La Jolla. It wasn’t one of the big, fancy homes, but it was comfortable. It was older. It was my childhood home and held a great deal of memories. It was small, but as a single dad, it was all he could afford. I pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. It was clear he wasn’t home. I made my way up the cement walk with little cracks that were in need of repair but would likely not get done anytime soon.

I collected the mail from the box and used my key to go inside. “Dad?” I called out, just in case his car was in the shop.

There wasn’t an answer. I put the mail on the small table near the front door. It was where the mail went. It never went on the dining table or on a kitchen counter. It always went on the table. My slightly obsessive nature was absolutely the product of my father’s upbringing.

I looked around the living room that was clean and neat. It was who he was. Organized. He could give Marie Kondo a run for her money. I walked into the