“I can’t look at either of you.”

My father looked at the papers on the table.

The deed transfer documents were printed on heavy, bright white paper.

They had been prepared by a notary my mother knew.

The blue ink of the signature line was waiting.

My father reached out and gathered the pages into his hand.

My mother watched him, her eyes widening.

“Arthur?” she said.

“What are you doing?”

My father didn’t answer her.

He gripped the edges of the thick paper.

With a sudden, violent motion, he ripped them down the center.

The sound was like a dry branch snapping.

“Arthur, no!” my mother screamed.

She lunged across the table to grab the pages.

But my father was already folding them.

He tore them again, his hands moving with a heavy, deliberate force.

He tore them until the pieces were no bigger than postage stamps.

He let them fall.

They scattered across the worn wood of the table.

Some of them drifted down to the linoleum floor, landing near my mother’s wet boots.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” my father said again.