When I came home, Harry was sitting in my leather recliner, the one my late wife Martha had given me. His feet were up, a beer bottle hung from his hand, and he did not even look at me.
“Old man,” he said, eyes on the television. “Get me another beer.”
I set the grocery bags down.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Corona. Not that cheap stuff.”
Something inside me went cold.
“I just got home,” I said. “I need to put the groceries away.”
Harry finally looked at me, annoyed.
“What’s the problem? You’re already standing.”
“The problem,” I said, “is that this is my house.”
He stood slowly, trying to use his size to intimidate me.
“Your house? Tiffany and I live here.”
“You live here because I allowed it.”
Then Tiffany walked in. She looked at Harry, then at me.
“Dad,” she said, “just get him the beer. It isn’t worth fighting over.”
Harry stepped closer.
“You live in our house now,” he said. “So when I ask you to do something, you do it.”
I looked at my daughter, waiting for her to defend me.
She didn’t.
Instead, she stood beside him.
