in the front room.
I told him all of it. Travis. Tuesday’s supper. Those words. Real dads.
He didn’t interrupt once.
Keep reading — tap the button below to continue.He listened the way he used to listen to a cow that was off her feed. Quiet. Patient.
When I was done, he didn’t say a word about Travis.
He didn’t ask what was wrong with that man, the way some fathers would’ve.
He just asked one question.
“Does Travis know you’re asking me?”
“No,” I said.
He was quiet for
