I took a drink of my water.
My father kept talking because that was what he did when he felt like he had a point.
“Business and women cause most downfalls for men who think they are too smart to fall.”
“I’m not falling.”
“Keep making sure of that.”
That was how he raised me.
Don’t fall.
Don’t fold.
Don’t let people see too much.
Handle your business first, and whatever hurts can wait until after.
My father had his own problems when I was younger. I knew that now. I didn’t know the names for it back then. Depression. Addiction. Pressure. Whatever people called it. In our house, it was just him having a bad week.
He didn’t go to rehab.
Didn’t do therapy.
Didn’t sit around talking about feelings.
He worked.
He ran shit.
He disappeared into himself and came back when he was ready.
When I got older and started doing the same thing, nobody had to teach me how.
I had already seen it.
“You stop moving, people start counting your pockets,” he said, setting his tea down. “The bigger you get, the less mistakes you can afford.”
“I know.”
“Knowing ain’t enough.”
My mother called from the kitchen. “Vaughn Jr., take these containers with you before you leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My father smiled a little at that, almost hidden. “She still bossing everybody.”
“She been doing that.”
“Only woman allowed.”
That was probably the realist thing he ever admitted without making it emotional.
I sat there for a while longer, watching the movie with him. He was breathing more heavily than usual but still sitting up, alert.
That stubborn shit ran through my blood.
