He kept scrubbing.
"What?"
"Look at me."
"Busy."
"You're washing a clean plate."
He looked down, then put it in the rack.
"Next plate."
I knew then.
He was trying not to cry.
So naturally, I made it worse.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"The box."
"Sure."
"And the account."
"Your mom puts money in too."
"I know."
"And we're not anywhere near paying for college, so don't go applying to some castle."
Advertisement
"Ray."
He finally stopped.
"You didn't have to do any of that."
"Yeah."
"Then why did you?"
For once, he didn't have a joke ready.
He stared into the sink.
Then shrugged.
"You're my kid."
That was it.
No "son."
No speech.
No hand on my shoulder.
Just three words from a man who had spent nearly two years acting like they were obvious.
I hugged him.
He froze.
We weren't really a hugging family.
Then his wet hands landed awkwardly against my back.
