“It was my father’s,” Jonathan confessed, his voice still thin and irritated. I chose to ignore that.
“Father with a capital F, or...”
Despite his glare, a small smile attempted to tug at his lips. “My blood father. Though, to be perfectly blunt, he was a Father as well.”
I didn’t quite know what to say to that. I only knew what that meant in the crudest of terms, but it seemed to matter to Jonathan. His scowl lingered a moment longer, though it gave way, slowly but surely, to a distant sort of sadness, captured as he was by some sot of distant memory. He seated himself on the side of my bed.
“He was a great man, my father,” Jonathan said, undeniably in past tense.
“You aren’t a Father, are you?” I asked.
Jonathan stared at me as though he had no clue what I had just said. Then under
