“You want me to hum1liat3 myself,” he said hoarsely.
“I want you to tell the truth.”
He stood and paced once across the carpet before stopping at the window.
“My daughter’s surgery is in two weeks,” he said quietly.
“And this assembly is tomorrow.”
He closed his eyes.
“I was 16,” he muttered.
“So was I.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, he looked at me again. There was no arrogance left. No resentment. Only something stripped bare.
“If I do this,” he asked, “this is finished?”
“Yes.”
He picked up the pen. His hand hovered for a moment.
Then he signed.
“I will be there,” he said, his voice unsteady.
After he left, I sat alone for a long time.
