The Check on the Gravel

The hospice receptionist looked at Ethan’s tuxedo and then at me.

“Family?” she asked.

I was still holding his hand.

“Daughter,” he said.

The receptionist looked at him.

“He is my father.”

She did not ask whether he had been expected.

She looked at the clock behind her.

“Room fourteen.”

My aunt was sitting outside the room with a paper cup between her hands.