“Dad?”
“I figured you’d be in no shape to drive,” he said. “I’ll take you home. Your mother can drive our car back.”
“Dad, it’s two and a half hours.”
“I know how far it is.”
I got into the passenger seat. I put the yellow envelope on my lap.
We backed out of the driveway. In the side mirror, I could see Rachel’s white house with the black shutters and the red front door. The pumpkins on the porch. The wreath made of fall leaves.
Nobody came out after us.
For the first twenty minutes, nobody said anything. Then Ben, from the back seat, said in a small voice:
“Mommy? Why was Aunt Rachel kissing Daddy?”
I closed my eyes.
My father reached over and put his big, rough, sawdust-smelling hand over mine on the envelope.
“Buddy,” he said, before I could answer. “Sometimes grown-ups make really bad choices. Really,
