“I’m alright,” he said evenly. Then, after a brief pause that made Tyler shift without understanding why, he added, “You doing alright?”
The question landed strangely, like a ball thrown just off target. Tyler blinked.
“Uh, yeah. I’m great.”
Dad nodded once, as if filing that away. Instead of walking off, he knelt back down on purpose and began gathering the spilled food with slow, methodical motions, not humiliated, not flustered, just cleaning up his mess like it was the most normal thing in the world.
The room watched, confused now, waiting for anger that never came. “You play sports?” my dad asked, still crouched. Tyler hesitated.
“Football.”
“That takes discipline,” Dad said. “Early practices. Conditioning.
Film. You work hard at it?”
“Yeah,” Tyler replied, less loudly. “That’s good,” Dad said, tossing soggy napkins into the trash.
“Hard work builds strength. But real strength is control. It’s knowing you could hurt someone… and choosing not to.”
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