I knew those words. I knew their rhythm, and I knew the man who had written them, alone at a kitchen table above a hardware store, with three sleeping babies sharing one crib because he couldn’t afford three.
I knew because that man was me!
I knew those words.
June continued reading. “I’m 27. I’m scared all the time. I don’t know how to be a father, but I know I’m not going anywhere.”
I slipped out of my chair, my knees crashing onto the floor, and the camera nearly fell from my hand!
Someone sitting beside me reached for my elbow and helped me back into my seat. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them.
When she said, “Our father,” she was talking about me. She had always been talking about me!
Onstage, my daughter stopped reading, looked directly down the aisle at the tearful man in row seven, and continued.
