I went to the funeral even though I wasn't sure if I should.
The church was full. People I hadn't seen in years approached me with sad smiles and said things like, "He was a good man," and "We're so sorry for your loss."
I nodded, thanked them, and felt like an imposter.
Then Troy's 81-year-old father approached me, reeking of whiskey.
His eyes were red, his voice hoarse.
He came closer and I could smell the liquor on his breath.
Troy's 81-year-old father approached me.
“You don’t even know what he did for you, do you?”
I stepped back. “Frank, this isn’t the time.”
He shook his head violently, almost losing his balance. “You think I don’t know about the money? The hotel room? The same one, every time?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “God help him, he thought I was being careful.”
Frank stumbled slightly, his heavy hand on my arm as if he needed me to keep me upright.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“You don’t even know what he did for you.”
