The church was packed. People I hadn’t seen for years approached me with sad smiles and said things like, “He was a good man” and “We are so sorry for your loss.”
I nodded, thanked them, and felt like a fraud.
That’s when Troy’s 81-year-old father staggered up to me, reeking of whiskey.
Her eyes were red, her voice thick.
He leaned very close to me and I could smell the alcohol in his breath.
Troy’s 81-year-old father staggered up to me.
“You don’t even know what he’s done for you, do you?”
I took a step back. “Frank, this isn’t the time.”
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