Dad sputters awake and blinks owlishly when he sees us sitting on the bed. “About time,” he grumbles, as if we’ve kept him waiting. My father’s the silent type—he never says anything nice if he can help it. When I was growing up, the most we got from him was a forced smile at Christmas. Even when Joey played football, Dad wasn’t encouraging—it was always “Hit ‘em hard,” or “Don’t fumble the ball, for Christ’s sake,” and once, when Joey broke his ankle out on the field, he was told to simply, “Walk it off.” The role Dad’s played in my life can be summed up in his short, succinct phrases. Quick to anger and slow to praise, that’s my old man. Why Joey still bothers to try and please him is beyond me.
With a stretch that makes his back crackle, my dad stands. “Well?”
As if we’re mind-readers
