“No,” I said. “It’s the opposite of a joke.”
“You have a father,” he said. “Standing right here.”
“I have a father,” I agreed. “Standing right there. His name’s Marcus.”
“I paid child support for fourteen years,” my father said, his voice rising slightly. “I sent birthday cards. I showed up today.”
“You sent two cards a year,” I said. “Marcus showed up every single Tuesday for two years straight without ever once asking for credit.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not. None of this has been especially fair to anyone. I’m just done pretending fair means whoever arrives with the nicer car.”
Something shifted across my father’s face, anger trying to cover something that looked, for just a second, like real hurt.
“I gave you a car,” he said. “Do you understand what that cost?”
“I know exactly what things cost,” I said. “That’s kind of the whole point of everything I just handed him.”
