My father was difficult, old-fashioned, and stubborn, but he wasn’t a thief. He was a man who valued family values and hard work. Yet, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely open the front door. I rushed inside; the air was stale and still. I went straight to the kitchen counter, where I usually threw my mail. Nothing. No notes, no desperate voicemails on the landline I kept just for my parents. I pulled out my cell phone again. The battery was at 12%, flashing red, reflecting the urgency gripping my chest. I sat on the cold kitchen tile floor, my back against the dishwasher, and dialed my father’s number. It rang, rang, rang. He usually answered on the second ring. He was retired. The phone was practically glued to his hand as he scrolled through news feeds and fishing forums.
Finally, on the last ring before voicemail, the line opened with a click.
“Elina,” he said in a strong voice, surrounded by background noise. It sounded like television, perhaps a game show. He seemed relaxed, even happy.
“Dad,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion. “Dad, something terrible happened. I just got home. My car… it’s gone. Someone stole it from my driveway.”
I waited for his gasp. I waited for his indignation, for his protective instinct to kick in. I expected him to tell me to lock the doors, to call the police, that he was coming with a baseball bat. Instead, there was a pause, a long, heavy pause, and then he chuckled. It wasn’t a nervous laugh. It wasn’t a laugh of disbelief. It was a casual, contemptuous chuckle, the kind you give to a child who’s dropped his ice cream.
