Chapter 15 · free to read
He talked until the rain stopped. Twenty-nine years came out of him in one sitting, in exactly the order he had buried it.
And then the last piece, the one I had refused to pick up since the funeral. Why call the estranged son home at all?
Ten years in London. Two funerals, one of them his. I had rehearsed this argument on a hundred cold mornings and not one of the lines was any use.
It was not an apology. From him it was the same thing, and both of us knew it.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.