Chapter 12
We went to a diner.
Not the graduation dinner.
A diner off the highway with cracked red booths and pie in a glass case.
I wore my cap.
Dad wore his old suit.
People looked.
I did not care.
We ordered burgers and fries.
Dad asked for water because he said he was not hungry.
I ordered him pie anyway.
He ate it.
Slowly.
Like sweetness was something he had to relearn.
For a while, we talked about nothing.
My classes.
My scholarship.
The dorm.
Whether my old laptop would last another year.
Then I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked out the window.
“Because I thought protecting your mother’s image protected you.”
“It didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“Did you know she told me you stopped caring?”
His eyes closed.
“No.”
“She said you missed things because you were ashamed.”
His hand tightened around his fork.
“I was ashamed. But not of you. Never of you.”
“I know now.”
May you like
“I wish you knew then.”
So did I.
