I have three sons. They used to say to me whilst at the supper table, “Dad,” they’d say, “you spoil Gillian.” I don’t hear those words much any more. I miss them. Evan has married. Gabriel is away at school. Aaron will make an occasional attempt, but his heart’s not in it. He’s alone, Ionian. The lyric’s choral.

What other fathers do when their sons tell them they’re spoiling the daughter, I don’t know. I know what I did. ”Thank you,” I said without fail. “I need every assurance I can get. I worry I’ve not been doing that.”

Gillian would smile. Her mother would smile. Her brothers would smile. It became a ritual as regular if not as frequent as saying grace. What can I say? We’re Episcopalians.

She came home from high school for the last time today.