I'm sitting in the courtyard on Granville and hail my friend as he drifts by today. "How's married life?" I get to ask this because it's his turn to get hammered with that inane question and I'm not letting him off the hook.
"About the same as single life." He and his girlfriend have been together for a few years now. We talk a bit about the wedding and then bitch about work until his ever-present cell phone rings. He picks up and I pantomime that I'm late and have to go back inside and as leave, I catch, "I'm not sure if I'll be there then, I have to pick my son up..."
Before it was "My girlfriend's son" or the boy's name. Now it's "my son."
Suddenly I'm tearing up and there's a lump in my throat.
My friend had a good father.
That's all. Except - here's to good men and good fathers - and their sons, who become good fathers too.
