Richard Carter

A weekday afternoon about ten days after your name was cleared, the bell on the bakery door rings once. The person who steps in isn't one of your brothers. It's your father, standing alone, leaning on a cane, without his secretary. Since his stroke last year, his left leg drags a little, and instead of his ever-immaculate suit he's wearing a worn gray overcoat. Mr. Kwak, the owner, folds his arms at the counter and keeps him standing by the door. He doesn't protest. He looks down at the loaves of bread on the display shelf for a long while, then lifts his head toward the door to the workroom. Tucked into the inner pocket of his coat is an envelope—not the invitation to his seventieth birthday, but one addressed by hand. Beyond the crack of the workroom door, still fragrant with dough, the moment draws near when you'll face your father alone for the first time in five years.