It was a Tuesday evening when my sister called. I didn't check my phone till after the third missed call. And once I did all that was there was a text.

One message and two words, everything needed to describe the final sentence of his life.

Dad died.

I called my sister back to learn the particulars.

"You get my text?"

"Yeah," I said.

"I'd ask if you're sad, but I already know the answer."

I saw no way to respond. My sister continued talking, driving the conversation like a stagecoach driver.

"His wife said the funeral will be on Friday. You're gonna go, right?"

"I wasn't planning on it."

My sister sighed. "He was our father."

"Biologically speaking that might be true, but I think further testing is required. Maybe Maury can help. He can call it a 'beyond the grave' special."

My sister sighed again, this time louder, ensuring I registered her displeasure.

"Dad's dead and you make a joke," she said. "That's not okay."

"Maybe that's how I cope."

My sister employed the silent treatment, and in the lull I thought about the things I'd have to do to travel halfway around the world from my home in Delhi to California—unearthing the wrinkled black suit buried in my closet; finding a sitter for my dogs; and purchasing a plane ticket at the eleventh hour.

Staying in India was seeming like the best option until my sister broke in and derailed my train of thought.

"You need to be there," she said. "It's the right thing to do."

If she'd pulled any tighter the wire would have snapped, but as it was the tautness of her guilt trip held firm.

"Yeah," I replied, while opening up my laptop screen and searching for a cheap airfare. "I'll be there."

"That's good," she said. "Dad would have appreciated that."

But truth told I could have cared a less what he thought.