When the old man came up to the bathroom to shave, I crept down to the kitchen for some breakfast. I listened hard for him as I poured those Shreddies, spilling the sugar and quickly tidying up to hide the evidence. “Ears of a sneak,” the old man liked to say, “small and sharp.” Maybe so, but I made it back — balancing two bowls of cereal — without running into him.
It was Saturday, and Ma had gone to work, leaving the old man and me home by ourselves. Everybody said stepmothers were the evil ones, but, if you asked me, these guys who married your mother and then thought they owned you were just as bad. Once, the old man had even tried to adopt my brother Greggie and me, so we’d have the same last name as him and his son, Max, and Ma. We’d told him we were pretty happy with the name we had. As far as I was concerned, your father’s your father, even if he’s a no-show. End of story.
