My father died as I stood in line for a fried chicken sandwich. I refused to answer the call, only it kept coming, wouldn’t stop, would not be ignored. My father was dead, and I had to be told, I was the only person to tell. But this was the first moment I’d had to see my lover in days, in what felt like weeks. We had exactly this lunch and then who knew when I’d see him again? How dare my father try to steal this moment I needed, with someone else who was never there for me either?
Sunday Dutro is a creative nonfiction writer living in Montana with her family. She is actively working on a memoir. Find her at sundaydutro.com.