I Flew Fourteen Hours To My Son’s Wedding Until His Bride Told Me I Never Mattered

nineteen years. He had been Theo’s college roommate at the University of Washington, the best man at our wedding, and the man who read the eulogy at Theo’s funeral. He was sixty-seven years old, six-foot-three, and owned khaki pants and Oxford shirts in three shades of blue. He called me “kid” the way an uncle does. He was, without exaggeration, the continue reading …