Dad’s small house sat at the end of a gravel lane, smoke rising from the chimney. I carried the first tray to the porch, and he opened the door in his best flannel shirt. “Tom, what in the world is all this?” he asked. Before I could answer, I saw the table behind him. Seven old men in clean shirts sat waiting, and every one of them stood up the moment they saw the turkey.

Then headlights swept across the yard. Stephanie’s car pulled in, followed by her parents’ silver sedan. Her father, Raymond, stepped out in a pressed suit, ready to lecture me. He stopped halfway up the porch steps. His eyes fixed on my father, and the color left his face. “Mr. Caldwell,” he whispered. “Is that really you?”