My husband set a child’s wooden high chair on the kitchen floor, the same one he had used as a baby, and laid a plastic bib across the tray. “Dad,” he said evenly, “since you eat like a toddler, you can sit like one until dinner.” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. My father-in-law scoffed, folded his arms, and refused to budge, but my husband simply waited, holding the bib.

Then the old man’s shoulders dropped. He lowered himself onto the edge of the little chair, his knees nearly at his chest, and said quietly, “Fine. But please, both of you, close the door, because I have to tell you something.” My husband shut it. Outside, voices drifted from the living room, and my father-in-law drew a long, shaky breath.