Myfather removes the stapled sheets of paper from his back pocket. He points at the kitchen table. It’s his signal to my sister and me to have a seat.
“I need ten minutes,” he says. “I have to talk to you about something.”
Our minds leap to worst-case scenarios. “Are you okay?” Jennifer asks.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m fine, but…” His voice trails off.
He unfolds the document — at least six pages thick — as if he’s about to read a speech.