There wasn’t much space in the kitchen, but to David it was an important place from his childhood, and there were many stories associated with every corner of it. He looked at the pantry shelf where the cookies were always kept and remembered how he couldn’t reach them even with a chair. Now it was easy for him.
“Hi, Da-vid,” his father shouted out the window, stretching his son’s name.
He waved at him and made his way into the house. He walked into the kitchen with David’s backpack, holding it in his outstretched hand like something dirty and bad smelling.
“Some bum left all his belongings in our living room,” he laughed and set the backpack on the floor.
Father, or as the rest of the world calls him, Spencer Conel always joked a little harshly, but everyone at home was used to judging a joke without relativity to themselves. So David and Joan smiled.
Spencer hugged his skinny son in compare to him:
“Okay, the hug was warm enough, I’ll cancel the evening salute to your arrival.”
Joan escorted him out to change and began to put food on plates. And yes, both steaks were meant for one person. They sat down to dinner.
“What next, son?” Spencer finally decided to ask, sawing his piece of meat. “Will you stay with us for a while? Maybe I’ll find out at work…”
“Spence,” Joan looked at him meaningfully, “when you come home from work tired, do I ask you what you’re doing?”
“That’s all right, Joan,” David smiled. “Yes, Dad, I’ll stay with you for a couple of weeks, and then I’ll go somewhere to rest. I think I need someplace windier to clear my head.”
Joan was glad David was joking.
“You know, David,” said father thoughtfully, “don’t listen to anybody. In the end, you can’t blame anyone.”
The table was quiet and peaceful. Like six months ago and always before.