open palm and waited for me to thank him.
I looked down at the keys, the little logo catching the afternoon light, and for a second I let myself imagine the version of this moment where I just took them, said thank you, drove off down the street with the windows down and let everyone sort out the rest. It would have been easier. It wouldn’t have been true.
Everything I wanted to say to him was sitting right there in my chest.
I could have said all of it in front of everyone and watched him drive home proud with it.
Instead, I turned toward the porch.
I could feel my father’s eyes on me, confused now instead of proud, the keys still resting on his open palm, forgotten.
“Marcus. Come here a second.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope I’d been
