Ezoic
“Dad. Why did you wear the suit?”
Ezoic
He looked down at his coffee.
“Because,” he said, “your mother told me once that if I ever had to stand up for you in front of the whole world, I’d better look like I meant it.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
He finished his coffee. He kissed the top of my head on the way out, and he stopped in front of the mirror in the living room and straightened it a quarter of an inch.
“Crooked,” he said.
“It wasn’t crooked.”
“It’s always a little crooked,” he said. “That’s how you know somebody lives here.”
I’ve thought a lot about what happened since then. About Brian, and that day in the courtroom, and the long silence before he said It was just a mirror.
I don’t hate him. I thought I would. For a long time, I wanted to. But hate takes a lot of energy, and I’ve found I’d rather spend mine painting walls and brushing my hair and listening to my father tell stories in my kitchen.
