My father sat in a booth near the back, a cup of black coffee in front of him.

He looked smaller than I remembered, his gray hair thin and his shoulders hunched.

He had a thick, black leather ledger sitting on the table next to his coffee.

I slid into the booth across from him.

“Mark,” he said, his voice quiet and rough.

“Dad,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes scanning my face.

“I saw Linda’s car at the precinct,” he said.

“She called me, screaming.”

“She said you are putting them in jail.”

“I pressed charges,” I said. “They left me no choice.”

My father nodded slowly.

He did not look angry.

He looked incredibly tired.

“You did the right thing,” he said.

I stared at him, surprised by the words.

“You did,” he repeated, his hand resting on the black ledger.

“I should have done this twenty years ago.”

“But I was weak.”

“I let her destroy everything because I was too afraid of the noise she made.”

He slid the black ledger across the table toward me.