without defense.
“I was wrong,” he continued. “I failed you. I thought being a father meant making hard decisions and standing by them. But sometimes standing by a wrong decision just makes you wrong longer.”
My throat tightened.
He looked at Leo.
“I failed you too, young man. Before I even knew you.”
Leo studied him carefully.
Then he asked, “Do you know how to build a birdhouse?”
My father blinked.
“What?”
Leo shrugged, suddenly shy. “Mom said you used to fix things.”
My father looked at me.
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. It came through tears, strange and unsteady.
“Yes,” my father said, wiping at his eyes. “I know how to build a birdhouse.”
Leo nodded, as if this was the most important test my father could have passed.
“Maybe you can teach me.”
My father’s face changed.
Softened.
Opened.
“I’d like that.”
