The water streaked the view of the brick building across the alley.

Behind me, the silence in my small kitchen was heavy.

My father’s apology still hung in the air, cold and dry.

He looked down at his own boots, which were stained with salt from the Cleveland winter streets.

“Clara,” he said again, his voice cracking.

I didn’t look at him.

I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

If I looked at his face, I would see the ten years I had lost.

I would see the overtime shifts at the steel yard.

I would see the nights I came home with hands so stiff I couldn’t hold a fork.

My mother took a step toward the kitchen table.

Her hand hovered over the deed transfer documents.

“Arthur, we can’t just ignore this,” she said.

Her voice was thin, rising in pitch.

“Megan needs this apartment.”

“The landlord in Chicago is threatening to evict her.”

“She has no money.”

“Then she can get a job,” my father said.

He didn’t raise his voice, but the tone was flat and solid.

“She can work, Evelyn.”