“Dad,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Driving you to court.”
“You don’t have to come. You’ve sat through enough of this.”
Ezoic
He’d come to every hearing. Every single one. Eight months of sitting in the back row of courtrooms, listening to lawyers argue about retirement accounts and couches.
“Dad, really. It’s just the asset stuff today. It’s boring. Claire’s got it.”
He opened the passenger door of his truck.
“I’m coming.”
There was something unusually final in his voice. Something that made me stop arguing.
Ezoic
I put on my other shoe.
The drive downtown took twenty minutes. Dad didn’t turn on the radio. He drove with both hands on the wheel, the way he’d taught me, at ten and two.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“You’re wearing a suit.”
“It’s a courthouse.”
“You wore jeans to the last four hearings.”
