Before I could argue, he stepped out with the confidence of a man twice his age. I watched through the windshield, hands trembling, as he walked to the door and knocked firmly.
My father opened it. Older, grayer, but still with that stern face that once made me feel small.
Then something happened that made my breath catch.
My son reached into his backpack—slowly, intentionally—and pulled out a thick envelope. I could see my father tense, unsure, but my son spoke first.
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