Then he can’t talk, because I’ve launched myself at him, hugging him so hard that I’ve squeezed the breath out of him. I’ve barely touched my dad in ten years, unless I was trying to haul him off the couch for some reason. I’m not hugging him because of the money, even though it probably seems that way. It’s more because, if he’s doing this—planning not only for my future, but his—then maybe he’s making real progress.
