“This matters to my boy,” I said quietly.
Bobby’s laughter faded. “You’re a better man than me, brother. I’d tell my kid to take me as I am or not at all.”
“Maybe that’s why your kids don’t call on Christmas,” I replied, and we both chuckled, the humor softening the sting of truth.
After hanging up, I went to my closet and pulled out the suit I’d worn to Bobby’s brother’s funeral three years back. It still fit, more or less. Then I looked at myself in the mirror – the long gray beard, the tattoos crawling up my neck, the leather vest hanging on the door behind me.
For one night, I could pretend to be someone else. But a lifetime? That was asking too much.
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