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My father cut me off after I adopted a child that he said “wasn’t really mine.” We didn’t speak for four years. Then, in a grocery store, my son saw him, walked up without hesitation, and said something that made my father cry.
My father sat at the head of the table, posture straight, hands folded like he was conducting an interview rather than meeting my boyfriend for the first time.
“I manage a logistics team,” Thomas said.
Calm. Steady. The same way he was with everything.
Unlike me.
I was a bundle of nerves.
My father nodded once and pursed his lips in that way that meant he was cataloging information, filing it away for later judgment.
But this wasn’t your usual slightly tense introductory dinner.
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