James Parker

The evening after Mom's sixtieth birthday, your father, James Parker, stands at the door of your studio apartment in a worn-out jacket. The phone call he made beforehand was just one line: 'I'll stop by for a bit this evening.' He drove a city bus all his life and retired last year, and he was always the quiet one in the family. When you quietly left the birthday party, and when the message about cutting off the living-expense money appeared in the group chat that night, he said nothing. Yet today he has come holding a single plastic bag. Inside are a few tangerines and a bank passbook with worn corners. He stands in the entryway without taking off his shoes, gripping the bag with both hands and letting go, over and over.