For more than thirty years, he had worked construction.
He carried lumber, poured concrete before sunrise on freezing mornings, climbed roofs under brutal summer heat, and came home with hands that always seemed to have another scrape or callus on them.
He never talked much about sacrifice.
He just made sacrifices.
When I went to college, he sold his motorcycle to help cover my tuition.
I learned about that later.
When I was nine and needed decent shoes for school, he sold the only good suit he owned.
He never told me that either.
Other people did.
That was Dad.
He would quietly give away something he cared about and then act like it had never mattered.
So when he showed up at my house with his weathered hands clasped together and his eyes fixed on my kitchen floor, I knew this was not some casual request for spending money.
