“Well, you see,” my father said, pouring a beer from the bottle into the same glass he always used, “That’s the thing with hearts. They break pretty easy.”
My mother must have told him. I certainly didn’t. I stared at my soup, vegetable, homemade, with extra potatoes, just for me. He sat across from me, not in his usual spot at the head of the table.
“They heal well enough, though” he said, and then, after making sure my mother wasn’t around, slid a beer in front of me. “You just need to make sure they never set too hard.”