I looked down at my weathered hands, covered in calluses and faded tattoos that told stories from another life. Stories of brotherhood, rebellion, and a different kind of honor than Judge Harrington would recognize.
“You want me to leave the leather at home,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Maybe wear that suit from Uncle Bobby’s funeral? And…” he hesitated, “maybe trim the beard a bit? Cover the tattoos?”
I’d been expecting this day for years, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. In my younger days, I might have told him to go to hell. But at 68, I’d learned when to fight and when to bend.
“I’ll do it,” I said finally. “For you and Christine.”
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