I watched from the door as Dad got out of the car and made his way around the house and to the set of stairs that would bring him to my front door. In spite of the cold and the snowflakes still dancing in the air, he wore only a lightweight jacket he’d probably held on to since the 1970s. It was what he would call a windbreaker. It was dull beige, no lining, with a zip-up front. In his hand he clutched a brown paper bag, and I could guess without thinking what was inside—a six-pack of Budweiser, his favorite beer from as far back as I could remember. He drank the stuff, honestly, like I drank water. Yet I had never seen him drunk. I had some in my own fridge right now, just in case he didn’t bring his own.
I felt a curious rush of emotions as I stared down at the man who’d fathered me. Th
