I was eleven, maybe twelve, and I opened the fridge for something to drink. I noticed Dad’s opened beer beside the milk and lifted it out. Dad, standing at the stove, looked over his shoulder, as I took a sip. He was going to tell me off, but before he could, I was spitting it out into the sink. Dad chuckled. “Now you know. Don’t waste my beer again, eh?” I rub my eyes hard because I’d never recalled that memory until today.
