“I didn’t take it,” he said. “Bank did. I’m the one keeping pieces of it alive.”
“That place was his.”
“That place was debt.”
He spoke with the lazy confidence of a man who believed that saying a thing calmly made it the truth.
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to throw a wrench through the window. I wanted my father back, and since that wasn’t an option, I settled for breathing through my nose and clenching my jaw so hard it hurt.