Art was the loud shirt writ large, the ultimate spectacle, everything Dad’s world had taught him to fear. Eric had wanted to go to art school at eighteen, and Dad had refused to pay, had pushed him toward something “stable,” and Eric had spent twenty-five years in a sensible career that paid the bills and slowly starved the brightest part of him. He’d made peace with it, mostly. He told himself the art had just been a young man’s dreamThe fund in that lining was enough to change that. Dad
MY BROTHER WORE A BRIGHT RED SUIT TO DAD’S FUNERAL AND I WAS FURIOUS
