Almost two decades ago while living in Europe my ex husband and I invited my father and his date, a redheaded anesthesiologist from Texas, over to our house for dinner.  I had just finished baking a roast in our finicky oven (I cannot recall whether it was gas or electric but it had issues) and as soon as we sat down my husband began carving the meat.

My father’s face turned a funny color, perhaps a shade similar to his date’s hair, and he asked my husband if he could see the knife.  My ex passed it to me and I passed it to the redhead who in turn passed it to my father.

Twisting and turning the nondescript knife in the light which emanated from the chandelier, my father frowned.  How did you come to get this? he asked.

I was busted. “I borrowed a few things before I moved into this house,” I said quickly.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head.  “Your mother stabbed me with this knife.”