“I’m sorry about the table,” he said. Quiet. The first true thing he’d said all night.
“I know,” I said. “Next year I sit with the adults.”
He nodded. “Next year you sit at the head of it. You’re the executor.”
It wasn’t an apology for everything. It wasn’t twenty years undone. But it was him handing me the chair, finally, instead of pointing continue reading …
