The day after Father’s Day was bittersweet for Dion.
His kids loved him. They told him so once per year; twice, if you counted Christmas, though Renata was an atheist now and Jayme was off in South Korea, and hadn’t been home in a couple of years.
But the day after Father’s Day, when he was again alone in his apartment with his television and his thoughts, he felt sad and happy at the same time.
They were there, if he wanted to call. They loved him every other day, though they didn’t really say so. Didn’t feel the need to. Which, Dion would concede, was his own doing, living as he did like a man. All stoicism and strength and refusing to admit to any feelings or emotions or any of that nonsense. Just good, quality manhood. Manliness. Masculinity, for the first twenty years of their lives, and by then it was just too late to do anything else.
But after Father’s Day, Dion wanted to sit and have a bit of a cry, and maybe even talk about things.
Instead he opened another beer, and turned the movie back on.