In the last years of his life, my dad and I had a tradition.
Most nights, on a long commute home, I'd call him. The routine was nearly always the same. The phone would ring: four, five, six times. He wouldn't answer.
Then the machine would kick in and I'd hear my sister's voice on the machine. The one who claims to live in Manhattan and come home to take care of Pop. In reality, she was living and smoking and eating and crying in her old bedroom every night. She wasn't going anywhere.