I returned home to find a stranger standing in my family room. Sparsely furnished, the focal point of the room was a brick fireplace with a thick oak mantle mounted above. Resting on the wooden shelf sat a framed photo of my wife accompanied by her urn. The stranger, his back towards me, stood in silent observation of the display. I pulled a switchblade from my pocket but kept the blade lodged in its handle, at least for the time being. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Get outta my house!” “And hello to you too, son.” It was the second time I had seen my father in twenty years. It was twice too many. My thumb pressed the button on the handle of the knife. The sharpened steel blade sprang from its concealment. Without saying a word, I pressed the tip against my thigh and returned the knife into the handle. The charade was then repeated over and over again. “I didn’t know I had a daughter in law. What happened?” “I don’t have a father, so you can’t have a daughter in law.” Upset with the characterization, my father turned to face me. My words cut deep as I knew they would. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Scapegoating him was easy even though the fault for his absence was shared by both of us. Over the years, any time he reached out and tried to make amends, it only pushed me further away. There was no middle ground he and I would ever agree upon. Ours was a history filled with unforgivable transgressions. The last time we spoke was at my mother’s funeral. I was seventeen years old. Believing he played a role in my mother’s death, I confronted my father about it. He neither admitted nor denied a thing but I knew the truth. There was an accomplished look in his eyes that spoke louder than any words ever could. Both of my parents died that day. As my mother’s casket was lowered into the ground, the relationship with my father ended. Even though I have never forgiven him, I’ll also never forgive myself for failing to protect my mother or her memory. My father wiped away the tear and asked, “Must you still carry a grudge? It was a long time ago.” “It feels like it was five minutes ago.” Returning the knife to my pocket, I nodded towards the urn. “It was an accident. She died in a car accident.” “Were you to blame?” “You would think that, wouldn’t you? It wasn’t my fault but I’m to blame. If I had been driving…” “My point is…if you didn’t cause the accident, then you need to stop beating yourself up over it.” “The only person I’m gonna beat up is sitting in prison. When he gets out, I’m gonna remind him what he took from me, right before I kill him.” “Let me know when it’s time and I’ll go with you.”