But to my son James, they might as well have been a prison uniform.
“Dad, I need to talk to you about meeting Christine’s parents next weekend,” James said, fidgeting with his coffee cup across my kitchen table. At 32, he looked nothing like me with his clean-cut appearance and businessman attire. No tattoos, no leather, no visible connection to the life I’d lived.
“I’m looking forward to it, son. First time I’m meeting my future daughter-in-law’s family.” I smiled, but his expression remained troubled.
“That’s the thing, Dad.” He set down his cup. “Her father is Judge William Harrington.”
I whistled low. “The same Harrington who sentenced Mickey Flanagan to twenty years?”
James nodded grimly. “Christine says her parents are… traditional. Conservative.”
I understood immediately what he wasn’t saying. “And you’re worried about how your old man will come across.”
“Dad, you know I respect who you are. But this dinner is important for my future. For us.”
