At a red light, I looked at myself in the rearview mirror.
One eye bruised.
Lip swollen.
Gray hair combed carefully because habit survives humiliation.
“You old fool,” I whispered.
I did not mean it cruelly.
I meant it accurately.
I had mistaken provision for parenting. I had mistaken silence for patience. I had mistaken Brandon’s comfort for his stability.
When the light turned green, I drove on.
My house was not like Brandon’s mansion. Mine sat behind live oaks on three acres outside the loudest part of the city. Low brick. Wide porch. Built strong, not showy. My wife, Elaine, had chosen the kitchen tiles herself. She had planted rosemary near the back steps. Even years after her death, I still avoided cutting it too far back.
As I turned into the drive, I saw the black SUV.
It sat near the gate, engine running.
Two men inside.
