I don’t understand it. It was easier when Mom was alive. She was our buffer. She made us a family. “You’re important to me,” I say quietly. “I want to come see you. I need to come see you. Please.”

The silence stretches again.

“Fine,” he says, exasperation in his voice.

I tell myself not to be hurt. There’s no point in being sensitive. This is Dad. It’s how he’s always been. It’s how he’ll always be. “I’ll fly up tonight, and if I take tomorrow off, that will give us a three-day weekend.”

“Your front office will have to reschedule.”

“It happens when there’s an emergency.”

“Alison, I don’t want a fuss.”

“That’s good, Dad, because I don’t fuss. That’s not my style.” My tone is brisk. I mastered professional crispness long before I graduated from dental school. It was the only way to survive life with my father. Now I’m grateful for the training. Grateful I’m not easily crushed.

He sighs. “No. It’s not your style. I’ll give you that.”

High praise indeed. “I need to book a flight, Dad, and I’m not sure when I’ll land, but I imagine it’ll be late, so plan on seeing me tomorrow. If not for breakfast, then by lunch.”

“Don’t rush. Tomorrow morning is duplicate bridge.”

“How will you hold the cards?”

“I’ll manage.”

I’m sure he will. Dad is remarkably resourceful. “Do I need to talk to a nurse? Is there someone with you waiting to speak to me?”

“No. I think I’ve handled it just fine.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You know where to find me.”

I need a second to compose myself after the call. I use the time to make a list of all the things I need to do. Clear my schedule. Book a flight.