“Aunt Linda, stop it. He’s my brother. He belongs in the photo.”
“He’s a grunt, Michael.” My father didn’t even look at me. He adjusted his bow tie, talking to the air like I was a bad smell. “He chose to carry a gun instead of a briefcase. He chose to be a servant. If it weren’t for pity, no one would have invited a disgrace like him. Let him stand continue reading …
