Her dad, Duane Albright, drank. Not the fun kind of drinking. The kind where you hide the car keys and lie to the school nurse about bruises on your mom’s arm. He never hit Kenzie, she said, but he broke a lot of things, including promises. When she was eleven, her mom packed two suitcases in the middle of the night and drove them to her sister’s place in Tulsa. Kenzie never saw her dad again. He sent one birthday card when she was fourteen. She tore it up without reading it.
Her mom died of breast cancer when Kenzie was in college. After that, when people asked about family, Kenzie just said, “They’re gone.” It was easier than explaining.
“I don’t even know how he found out,” she said. “I didn’t invite him. I didn’t invite anybody from back then.”
“Do you want him gone?” I asked. “I’ll go. I’ll do it right now.”
