He was wearing a suit.
I hadn’t seen my father in a suit since my mother’s funeral. It was dark gray and a little too big for him now, and he’d clearly ironed his shirt himself, because one side of the collar was crisp and the other side was crooked.
“Dad,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Driving you to court.”
“You don’t have to come. You’ve sat through enough of this.”
Ezoic
He’d come to every hearing. Every single one. Eight months of sitting in the back row of courtrooms, listening to lawyers argue about retirement accounts and couches.
“Dad, really. It’s just the asset stuff today. It’s boring. Claire’s got it.”
He opened the passenger door of his truck.
“I’m coming.”
There was something unusually final in his voice. Something that made me stop arguing.
Ezoic
I put on my other shoe.
