“This matters to my boy,” I said quietly.
Bobby’s laughter faded. “You’re a better man than me, brother. I’d tell my kid to take me as I am or not at all.”
“Maybe that’s why your kids don’t call on Christmas,” I replied, and we both chuckled, the humor softening the sting of truth.
After hanging up, I went to my closet and pulled out the suit I’d worn to Bobby’s brother’s funeral three years back. It still fit, more or less. Then I looked at myself in the mirror – the long gray beard, the tattoos crawling up my neck, the leather vest hanging on the door behind me.
For one night, I could pretend to be someone else. But a lifetime? That was asking too much.
The afternoon of the dinner, I stood in my bathroom, razor in hand, staring at my reflection. My beard had been with me since Vietnam. Cutting it felt like erasing part of my history.
With a deep breath, I began trimming it back – not off completely, but neat and short enough to look “respectable.” I covered my visible tattoos with a long-sleeve shirt despite the summer heat and left my rings at home except for my silver Thunder Road MC ring, which I couldn’t bring myself to remove. Some commitments run too deep.
James picked me up at six, his approval evident when he saw me.
“You look great, Dad. Really… different.”
Different. Not better. Just different. Like a tiger with its teeth filed down to make it safe for a petting zoo.
