In the bluish light of a late afternoon, Dad sat on the couch, staring out the window at the blue jays on the bird feeder. I bounded into the room and scrambled up beside him. I noticed his face was turned away and his shoulders were shaking. I didn’t know what he was laughing at, but I giggled loudly to join in the fun.
Mom gently touched my shoulder. “Lisie, Daddy isn’t laughing. He’s crying.”
My laugh vanished. Embarrassed and confused, I crumpled into the couch. At that age, the difference between laughing and crying was almost impossible to decipher.
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