Their Finest Hour

A lot of my friends, you know, they grew up without their Dads around, or they got sat down one day in the living room for that 'your father isn't going to be living here anymore but it's not your fault' conversation.

I always envied those kids.

I mean, I know they say having a father figure is important to childhood development or whatever, but fuck if I wouldn't have been better off if Bruce had been somewhere else that whole time.

I remember the day Bruce got drunk and threw the bottle at Mom, and I remember running at him shoulder-first like he was one of those rigs football linemen practice with. I remember the look on his doughy, sweaty, red face.

Bruce must have figured he had a choice: just go, or beat down his wife's kid. I chased the car two miles, making sure he stayed gone.