There were so many things I could have said to Sanjay. But I took one look at him—still in his dress shirt, only the slightest remnants of post-interview joy on his face—and swallowed my pain.

Our marriage may have been a mess, but I still loved my husband. There was no need to drag him down further than I had already pulled him.

TWENTY-TWO

My father called Friday evening as I was getting home from work. I had left a few messages for him since my conversation with Nick about his health, but more than a week had passed with no response and I had given up on hearing back. “Everything okay?” I asked.

“Can’t a man call his own daughter?” he said.

“Well, yes, obviously,” I said, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I fumbled for the keys in my purse. I had left work early—and by early, I mean when everyone else was leaving—and Sanjay was still picking up the kids from camp. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. How have you been?”

“Busy. Anita and I threw a graduation party for Luis last weekend.”

Anita was his girlfriend and Luis was her son. I was pretty sure my father secretly preferred Luis to me and Nick. But maybe that was because Luis didn’t expect anything from him. Anita was the one who expected things, but she loved him and he adored her. My father deserved that after so many years of being alone. Still, sometimes it hurt to hear how he bent over backward for them.

“How are you doing, niña ?” He sounded older than usual. Or maybe he, like me, was just tired.

“Things have been hard lately,” I confessed. “One of my good friends died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. When?”

I hung my bag on the hook near the door and kicked off my shoes. “Thank you. It was six weeks ago.”

“Sorry,” he said again.

This was more than I had expected—yet I wished he would have said something else, like, “Six weeks! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Even “How did it happen?” would have been a start. Nick claimed that our father didn’t know how to relate to us because his own parents had alternated between abuse and neglect, and our mother had not stuck around to help him figure it out. My brother felt it was enough that our father had not followed in our grandparents’ footsteps.

I wasn’t looking for a perfect parent, though. All I wanted was effort. After thirty-nine years I was aware I’d be more likely to wish my way into winning a million dollars, but this didn’t stop me from hoping for the impossible.

“How are the kids?” my father asked. “And what about you and Sanjay?”

I told him about how Miles had stopped wetting the bed, and how Stevie was reading chapter books above her grade level. And I said things between Sanjay and me were great—everything was fine.

It was only after my father responded that I understood why I had stuck to my standard, sanitized response rather than admitting that we had been struggling.

“Good. You two are lucky. A strong marriage is a gift,” he said.

How had I never noticed this before? My marriage was easily the thing he most praised me for, and his compliment had filled me with pride, maybe even a feeling of victory. Because with a few words, he was assuring me I had met my heart’s purest goal—I had avoided turning into my parents, and in the process avoided turning my children into me.

“Thank you,” I said. “Dad, Nick said you were having some health problems. What’s going on?”

He tsked. “It’s nothing. I was having a little stomach pain, so the doctor ran a few tests.”

“And?”

“Eh,” he said.

“Eh?”

“Eh,” he said again.

“Then something is wrong.”

“Maybe. I’m having surgery next month.”

I felt queasy. “Surgery? For what?”

“I have a little cancer,” he said.

My father had only spoken Spanish until his family moved from Puerto Rico to Baltimore when he was seven. Even all these years later, he sometimes mangled English phrases or used the wrong word. But I had a strong feeling his command of our common language had nothing to do with the way he’d described his health problem. “A little cancer? In your stomach?”

“That’s what they say. They caught it early, though. Don’t worry about me—the doctor says I’m going to be just fine.”

I wanted to weep. “Then what? You’ll have chemo?”

“Probably so.”

“How can we help?” I said. “Do you want to come here for a second opinion? The university has one of the top oncology centers in the country. I’m sure I could help you get an appointment.”

“No, no, I’m happy where I am. Anita will take care of me,” he said.

Of course she would. I didn’t say anything.

“I should probably get going. I just wanted you to know. Penelope?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

I swallowed hard. “Thanks, Dad. Please keep me posted about your health, okay?”

“Love you,” he said by way of an answer. Then he was gone.

I was still staring at the phone when the front door opened and my family’s voices rang through the air. It might have been the most joyful clamor I’d ever heard, but I still felt myself sinking back into the dark space where I’d been spending so much time lately. My father may have been a lousy parent, but he was the only parent I had. He couldn’t die.

Sanjay walked into the kitchen, took one look at me, and said, “What happened?”

“My father just called to say he has stomach cancer. He’s having surgery next month.”

“Oh, Pen, I’m sorry,” he said. “When is it scheduled?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know what stage his cancer is?”

I shook my head. “You know my dad—when it comes to personal info, less is more.”

Sanjay’s expression had quicksilvered from concern to what looked an awful lot like anger. “He thinks this is only about him.”

“Yes, but I’m not going to be the one to point out that it’s not. I can’t force him to share things with me.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“What?” I said.

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t get what?”

“You’ve been pushing Matt to be present for Cecily. Which is great—someone needs to do it.”

“What does that have to do with my father?” I asked.

He frowned at me, like I had just asked a stupid question. “I just wish that you’d advocate for yourself the way you do for Cecily.”

I felt like I’d been slapped.

“Don’t look at me like that, Penny,” said Sanjay. “I’m only saying this because I love you.”

“It’s fine,” I said, not meeting his eye. “You’re right.”

And he was. If the past few months had taught me anything, it was that I could be honest. Brutally honest, even. Except when it came to the things that hurt the most.

The following afternoon Matt dropped Cecily off for a playdate. She looked sullen when they arrived, but her face brightened when she saw the kids and me in the kitchen.

I knew the feeling. My mind had been on my father most of the morning, but seeing Cecily pulled me out of my mental fog. “Hey, you,” I said, hugging her. “Happy to have you over.”

“Thanks, Aunt Penny.” She grinned up at me. “Are we going to have ice cream today?”

I turned to Matt. He was clean shaven and looked less distraught than the last time I’d seen him. But unless I was imagining it, a chill remained between us. He shrugged. “Okay with me.”

“Yay! We’re going to have ice cream!” Cecily announced to Miles and Stevie. The three of them started whooping, and before I could tell them to take it outside, they went tearing off into the backyard.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s happier here than at home,” said Matt. He glanced around the kitchen. “Can’t say I blame her. I forgot how inviting your place is.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. I had intended to clean up before Cecily came over, but I had just pulled out the cleaning spray when Miles was stung by a bee. It had more or less been downhill from there.

“What Penny means is thank you,” said Sanjay from behind me.

Matt laughed, surprising me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard him laugh, let alone seen him smile, and I found myself smiling, too. “I definitely meant thank you,” I said.

Through the window, Miles and Cecily were jumping as high as they could on the trampoline to try to get Stevie, balled up in the center, to bounce. Popcorn, they called this game of theirs, and every time they played it, I wondered what possessed me to set up an enormous accident machine in my backyard.

“Hey, what are you guys doing with the kids at the end of the summer?” asked Matt. “I’d been counting on camp running until Labor Day and just found out it closes the week before.”

“I’m supposed to be watching them,” said Sanjay, “but there’s a slim chance I might be working that week. I’ve been interviewing for a communications position at the College of Liberal Arts.”

Matt was visibly surprised. “Really? I thought the writing thing was going really well.”

“It is and it isn’t. I’m hoping to sell a book soon, but I’m not making enough freelancing. It’s time to make a change.”

“Good for you, Sanj. I’m impressed.”

I snuck a glance at Sanjay to see if he looked regretful, but he just smiled. “Thanks, man,” he said. “You want a beer?”

“Sure—that sounds like just the thing.”

Sanjay opened a couple of bottles, and they went out back to sit on the deck. As I watched them and the kids through the window, there were a few seconds where it all seemed so normal that I forgot Jenny wasn’t in the other room or on her way over.