He just sat there, the way he used to when he was eight years old and something had gone wrong at school and he didn’t have the words for it yet.
After a while he said, “She was right about everything.”
“She usually was,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” His voice was rough.
“Not just for tonight.
For all of it.
For the things I said when you told us about school.
For not calling.
For making you feel like — ” He stopped.
“Like I was already gone,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
“I’m not gone,” I said.
“I’m right here.”
Daniel put his face in his hands.
His shoulders shook once, hard, and then he pulled himself straight.
He was fifty-one years old and he was crying on the bench where his mother used to sit and read in the afternoons, and I put my arm around him the way I had when he was small.
