I looked down at my weathered hands, covered in calluses and faded tattoos that told stories from another life. Stories of brotherhood, rebellion, and a different kind of honor than Judge Harrington would recognize.
“You want me to leave the leather at home,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Maybe wear that suit from Uncle Bobby’s funeral? And…” he hesitated, “maybe trim the beard a bit? Cover the tattoos?”
I’d been expecting this day for years, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. In my younger days, I might have told him to go to hell. But at 68, I’d learned when to fight and when to bend.
“I’ll do it,” I said finally. “For you and Christine.”
The relief on his face was immediate, but there was something else there too. Shame, maybe. Not of me, but of himself for asking.
“Thanks, Dad. It’s just for one night.”
I nodded, though we both knew it wasn’t just one night. It was the beginning of a lifetime where I would be the uncomfortable footnote in their story. The rough edge they’d need to sand down when company came over.
After James left, I called Bobby, my oldest friend and club brother.
“The judge is probably expecting some unwashed criminal,” Bobby laughed after I explained the situation. “Maybe you should show up in full 1970s biker glory, just to see his face.”
