He arrived early.
For once, he did not begin with a joke.
He looked tired.
“I read your biography,” he said.
“That must have been traumatic.”
His mouth almost smiled.
Almost.
“I did not know what half of it meant.”
“You could have asked me years ago.”
“I know.”
He stared at his coffee.
“I thought the military was taking you away from the life I built for this family.”
“You mean the company.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted me to work there.”
“I wanted both my children there.”
“Then why call it Hayes & Sons?”
He winced.
The question was old. I had stopped asking it aloud before I was twenty.
Dad rubbed one thumb against the paper cup.
“My father had a company with his brothers. I copied the name before you were born. Then Grant came along and it felt like proof the name made sense.”
“And I did not.”
“You wanted something I could not understand.”
“That is not the same as being wrong.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I am starting to understand that.”
The sentence was not an apology.
I waited.
Dad took a breath.
