That is the kind of sentence a man says to himself three or four times before he believes it.
It was late October in New Mexico, the kind of morning where the cold slips in under your shirt and makes you feel older than you are. I stood in Dylan’s front yard with one duffel bag, a red metal toolbox, and a coffee mug I’d forgotten I was still holding. The porch light behind him threw his shadow long across the concrete, making him look bigger than he used to when he was a little boy clinging to my leg at Little League games.
Now he was thirty-two, broad-shouldered, clean haircut, expensive watch, the kind of man who spoke like he was always wrapping up a business call.
“Dad,” he said, already tired of saying it, “we talked about this.”
No, I thought. You talked. I listened.
His wife, Kelsey, stood inside the doorway with her arms folded. She never stepped onto the porch. That told me more than anything else. People step outside when they still feel human.
“We need the room,” Dylan said. “And this arrangement was supposed to be temporary.”
