I was sitting in my car outside of Starbucks this morning, enjoying my overpriced coffee and pumpkin loaf.
Occasionally a father and his toddler or teenage son would cross the parking lot, headed into one of the stores, the sort of thing that fathers and sons do on a Sunday morning — spend time together, bond, talk.
I remember one such Sunday morning with my father, a very, very long time ago. “C’mon, Bud, come with me to the deli,” he said, as he got ready for the weekly run for bagels, lox, cream cheese, and the Sunday New York Times.
As we sat in the car after our shopping was done, he told me that my mother was not my real mother. My biological mother had died shortly after giving birth to me, he said so matter of factly, as if he was telling his 19-year-old son the score of last night’s game.
There is betrayal, and then there is betrayal.
