where my father used to spend Sunday afternoons listening to old music. In his former bedroom, I found a loose panel inside the closet.
Behind it was an old photograph.
I was seven years old, wearing a yellow toy construction helmet at one of his job sites. My father had his arm around me, smiling with unmistakable pride.
On the back, he had written:
My son Michael, the only partner who will never betray me.
I sat on the floor holding that photograph for hours.
Then I sold the house.
