Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Needed.
Craved.
It didn’t make sense to me that my dad would’ve wanted a fresh start surrounded by other people’s second-hand stuff, but it was just another thing in a long list of things that didn’t make sense—things that I would’ve done differently.
I snorted as the thought occurred to me that here I was, approaching thirty years old, and the only thing I had to show for it was that exact same second-hand shit.
Maybe I hadn’t done things so differently from my old man, after all.
I leaned back in the chair and shook my head. That wasn’t exactly an encouraging thought.
No.
Nope.
Not gonna go down that path.
I was different. A lot different. Sure, there might be some things that were unavoidable, some similarities that were dictated by circumstances and genetics. But I wasn’t the same cold, unavailable, uninterested man that I remembered my father as from my childhood.
Objectively, it could’ve been worse for me growing up. My dad hadn’t beat me, had hardly even yelled at me. Even those things would have required him to show more interest in me than he had.
For me, that lack of interest, that lack of caring what I did or where I went or what I might be feeling was worse than any amount of yelling or screaming could ever have been.
There had been plenty of times—particularly after my mom’s death—that I had just wanted my dad to acknowledge me, to at least pretend to see me. Instead, Henry had thrown himself into his work, spending longer and longer hours away from home. Then, when he was there, he never failed to make it clear to me what a disappointment I was.
When I had made the football team, Henry had complained that I wasn’t the quarterback. When I had spent an entire summer mowing yards for money, Henry had said I could’ve done more, applied myself better.
I just couldn’t ever win with my dad, no matter what the situation. Finally, I had stopped even trying.
Now here I was in my dad’s apartment, feeling like a stranger as I decided what, if anything, I’d keep around to remind myself of a man I never really got a chance to know.
Slowly, methodically, without thinking or feeling—just doing—I began to separate the papers on the desk into piles. I would glance at the paper, read a few lines, and then put it in its place.
Important-looking papers on the left, receipts on the right, miscellaneous junk in the trash can.
It was simple, but whatever. It was my system, my method, and not only was it working to clear the cluttered desktop, but it was helping to clear my mind.
When I’d run out of papers to sort on top of the desk, I took a minute to survey my work.
Much better. Very different.
Time to dive into the desk drawers.
It only took a little bit of shuffling to come across a bundle of brightly colored envelopes—the kind that usually held the kinds of sappy, cheesy cards that I had never really had a reason to buy—and certainly not for my father. Someone had clearly stepped up to fill that void, though, and more than just once or twice.
The stack of cards was so thick that I had to use both hands to get all of them out of the drawer and onto the top of the desk for a better look.
Thumbing through, there were some thanking him for wedding arrangements, graduation flowers, prom corsages and boutonnieres—the sorts of things I would expect from a long-time florist.
But then there were others, too.
Birthday cards and Christmas cards and just a few regular old greeting cards that I separated into their own little stack. And while most of the other ones—the thank you cards—were from a lot of random people, the other ones were from one person in particular.
Joanne.
I opened one at random and read a few lines.
Happy birthday, Henry! I can’t believe it’s been another year already. Time sure flies when you love what you do and who you surround yourself with!
I slipped the card back into its envelope with a frown. If I’d been expecting just a generic happy birthday, have a good day, that was certainly not what I found.
It wasn’t just the kind of card a person sent to their boss because they felt obligated. It was the kind of card a person sent to a friend.
I had such a hard time thinking of my dad and Joanne as friends that my brain simply refused to make the connection. No matter how many times I tried to make sense of it, I just… couldn’t.
But there was the evidence, in writing, staring me in the face.
From: Joanne
To: Henry
Merry Christmas! As I look back at the things that have happened in my life over the past year, there’s been one bright spot among so much darkness. Being able to talk to you—knowing you have my back—has really been the thing that has made me pull through.