He no longer asked about dinner.

He asked about leaving the house.

“Claire,” he said one evening, his eyes fixed on mine, “Have you ever thought about moving away? Just… leaving this house behind?”

I blinked. “No, Dad. Michael and I are happy here.”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes lingered on me too long, like he was looking through me.

Another evening, he muttered something while absently twisting the silver ring on his finger.