keep reading out loud. He just kept reading, silently, his thumb pressed hard against the edge of the page like he was afraid it might disappear if he let go.
My father’s voice cut through the quiet driveway.
“What is this? Some kind of joke?”
I looked at him for the first time since he’d handed me the keys.
His face had gone somewhere between confused and offended, an expression I’d never actually seen on him before, mostly because I’d never spent enough time around him to catalog his expressions in the first place.
“No,” I said. “It’s the opposite of a joke.”
“You have a father,” he said. “Standing right here.”
“I have a father,” I agreed. “Standing right there. His name’s Marcus.”
“I paid child support for fourteen years,” my father said, his voice rising slightly. “I sent birthday cards. I showed up today.”
“You sent
