Ryan sat there, paralyzed, realizing that the vault was closed forever. There was no apology grand enough, no tear pathetic enough, to move the man who had laid concrete for forty years.
“Goodbye, Ryan,” I said softly.
I stood up, threw a twenty-dollar bill onto the table to cover my breakfast, and walked out into the bright California sun.
For the first time in thirty-two years, I didn’t worry about my son’s future. He finally had the one thing he always needed, but never wanted: a blank slate, and the hard truth.
