“Why can’t I come with you?”

My father looked up from his computer and gave me that slightly indulgent smile he always seemed to wear when he looked at me. That patient, condescending sort of smile one wore when they were speaking to children.

I had realized lately that though I loved my father dearly, I quite hated that smile.

“It’s dangerous,” he said simply.

“But you said it was just sport hunting.”

“Let me amend that statement then. It’s ...