He walked over and crouched down beside it. His knees cracked. He stayed there for a long time.
My father had barely said a word through eight months of proceedings.
Ezoic
He’d helped when I needed him. He’d driven me to the courthouse when I was too upset to drive. He’d let me sleep in my old bedroom for the first two months, after I couldn’t stand being in the same house as Brian anymore. He made me grilled cheese sandwiches at eleven at night and sat with me at the kitchen table while I cried, and he never once said, I told you so, even though he’d never really liked Brian.
He listened when I was upset. But he rarely offered an opinion.
“It’s your life, Nicky,” he’d say. “You’ll figure out what’s right.”
Ezoic
Now, he reached out and touched the broken wooden frame. Very gently. With one finger. The same way he used to touch my forehead when I was sick, checking for fever.
