Dad always knew anyway.
He had a way of noticing small things—the way my shoulders slumped a little more than usual when I came home, the way I pushed food around my plate without eating much.
One evening during my freshman year, after a particularly rough day at school, he set a grilled cheese sandwich in front of me and leaned against the counter.
“You know what I think about people who make themselves feel big by making someone else feel small?” he asked casually.
“What?” I muttered.
“Not much,” he said with a shrug.
I looked up.
“Really,” he added. “If that’s the best someone can do with their life, I figure I’ve already won.”
That was my dad’s philosophy in a nutshell.
Simple. Quiet. Unshakable.
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