Page 77 of Bringing Home the Bacon
Colleen
Can we talk? Like really talk?
Absolutely. Give me five minutes. I’ll be right there.
I grab my keys and hightail it to the exit, my heart pounding with excitement. When I swing the door open, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and weathered skin stands in front of me, his fist raised to knock.
“Dad?” I say in disbelief.
The man’s face splits into a grin. “Hello, Harry.”
“You sure that’s all you want to drink?” I ask Harold Senior as we sit across from one another for the first time in years. “We have a stocked bar.”
“No, no.” He waves a hand and sips from the glass I gave him. “Water is fine.” He scans the interior of the restaurant. “Quite a place you got here, kid. Am I allowed to say I’m proud of you?”
I pause before responding. “You’re allowed to say whatever you want, I suppose.”
He nods. “Well then, I’m proud of you.”
We sit silently for a minute, neither knowing what to say next.
It’s the oddest thing, looking at the man partially responsible for my existence and feeling like a stranger to him.
“You know, I called you a few weeks ago,” I say. “Emailed you too.”
“Did you?” He seems pleased. “Appreciate that. I’ve been on the road for the past month or so. You know me. I like to keep moving.”
“You don’t check your cell?” I ask. “I called the number you gave me in your letters. I left voicemails.”
“You know me, I don’t believe in cell phones.”
“Why not?”
“That’s how they track ya.” He laughs, but as the child he left behind, I don’t find it very funny. He continues, “The number I gave you was my ex’s landline. I was with her at the time, but I don’t live there anymore.” He shrugs. “What can I say? Relationships are rough. Anyway, I saw the articles circulating about your success. Thought I owed it to ya to swing by and say ‘good on ya.’”
“You thought you owed it to me?”
“Well, you know me, I?—”
I have to interrupt. “You keep saying that. ‘You know me.’ But that’s the thing. I don’t know you. Never have.”
“I guess you’re right. I, uh—I’m sorry about that?” He scrubs a hand through his wiry hair. “Turns out I’m not much of a family man, I guess.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I guess not.”
Seeing him now, he looks way older than his sixty years. I almost feel bad for him. Here’s a guy who’s spent his whole life running, never slowing down enough to realize the good that’s all around him. Always looking for something better. And he doesn’t appear to be any closer to finding it.
We have the same lips and deep brown eyes, but that’s where the similarities end.
“Look,” I say. “I called because I have something I need to say to you.”
“So say it, kid.”
“Alright. Uh—” I clear my throat. “If you’d shown up a year ago—or even three months ago—I’d have had some choice words for you. I would have told you that you screwed up. That you didn’t do right by Mom. That you missed out on having a relationship with me. But I’m not going to do that now. You know why?”
“Why?” His eyes soften, and for the first time since he walked in, his bravado slips away, and he seems to really be listening.
“Because despite how my life started, I’m doing great now. I’m done letting your actions dictate how I feel about myself and how I show up in the world.” I sigh. “God, I spent so much time telling myself I’m alone, that until recently, I never stopped to truly recognize how many people do care about me. Do you remember the Cartwrights?”
