On the back, in small handwriting, were eleven words.
Manuel,
I wondered when you would become less stubborn.
Call me Sunday.
Luis.
Dad read it three times.
Then he sat down.
Mom read it over his shoulder.
“He still sounds like himself,” she said.
Dad laughed.
“I was thinking the same.”
Sunday arrived.
At five minutes before four, Dad was already sitting beside the telephone.
“We can video call,” Derek offered.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to see how old he got until I hear his voice.”
None of us understood that, but we accepted it.
At four, Dad called.
Mom tried to give him privacy.
Dad caught her wrist.
“Stay.”
She sat beside him.
We remained in the kitchen pretending not to listen.
Luis answered after three rings.
“Hello?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“Luis.”
Silence.
Then:
“You still sound serious.”
Dad laughed.
It was not polite laughter.
It was the helpless laugh of someone suddenly twenty-seven again.
