When Richard goes to see his daughter to celebrate turning eightieth, she answers the door sobbingly and waves him off. Richard looks through her front windows and sees that he is right to suspect problems.
As he drove, Richard nervously drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Ever since his wife’s funeral four years ago, Deidre has not driven down for Thanksgiving. There were only calls once a week now.
“I came to celebrate my birthday with you… it’s the big eight-o!” Richard replied, but the joy in his voice trailed off quickly. “What’s wrong, honey? Why are you crying?”
“It’s nothing; everything’s fine,” Deidre quickly wiped her tears and smiled a little. “I just…I wasn’t expecting you, and this isn’t really a good time. Sorry, Dad, but I, uh, need to focus. On my work, Look, I’ll call you. We’ll have dinner later, okay? Sorry.”
