My father nods. “And now that you do?”
“I think you should come to dinner.”
“Dinner,” he says again. “At our place. You cook, right?” he adds, looking at my father with a smirk.
“I used to. I can still manage a pot roast.”
“Then bring one. Tomorrow night. Seven.”
My father looks stunned. “You’re inviting me?”
My son shrugs. “I figure you can start small. And if you screw it up, Mom’s got a better throwing arm than she lets on.”
A laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. And then I’m crying. Not because I’m sad. Because I never imagined this moment could ever exist.
My father’s eyes shimmer. “Thank you.”Continue reading…
