Dad freezes. The tap continues to pour hot water over the porcelain, but his hands stop completely. The warmth in his posture vanishes, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness.
Dad turns off the faucet and slowly dries his hands on a clean dish towel. He turns around, leaning back against the edge of the granite counter, his dark eyes fixed on me.
"She called you," he says flatly.
"She did," I say. "She was taking a break at a farm shop near her commune. We talked for about ten minutes."
Dad lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, his jaw tightening until the muscles along his cheeks stand out in sharp relief. He doesn't look angry; he looks tired, carrying a weight that has clearly been settling into his bones for weeks now.
"How is she?" he asks.
"She's fine," I say. "Living h
