Mom was doing the dishes. Red was sitting there smoking. The laces on his work boots dangled down over the claw feet on the round oak table that sits in the middle of the kitchen. Pete tilted back his chair, teetering on the back legs, reading the newspaper. He lifted it up when Mom wiped off the oilcloth on the table and then muttered because his paper got soggy when he laid it back down.

       Mom wiped her hands on a dishtowel and stretched it out over the edge of the sink to dry. Then she reached into the back pocket of her jeans and brought out an envelope. She laid it down on the middle of the table and waited for them to notice. Neither one of them acted like they saw it. She sort of coughed, and when they still ignored her, she said, "This is from Dad. He wrote it to me before he died."

       That got their attention. Pete put down his paper and Red stubbed out his cigarette on the bent-up metal ash tray Mom kept sticking under the long ash he's always about ready to drop.