The Woman at the Docks (Grassi Framily)

I didn't know at the time what it would mean to be a man like my father.

But each step I took along that concrete was taking me closer and closer to the reality that was his life.

I had just broken into the space where the containers cleared from an alley and into a wider space when I heard my father's voice- calm and collected as it always was, never a man to lose his temper.

Louder than that, though, was the sound of begging, whimpering, sniffling.

Like someone was crying.

Crying was something that seemed out of place to my young ears. Because I'd learned all through the hours after I'd been told that my mother was gone, through the days after, then the funeral, that it was good I was being so strong, that I kept my chin up, that I wasn't showing any weaknesses.

Crying was not something I had ever seen from the men in my life. Not even when they grieved. My father's eyes had been hollow and devastated, but not water-filled. Not even when the casket was lowered into the ground. So I bit the insides of my cheeks, and blinked hard to make sure I didn't cry either.

But this man standing across from my father, flanked by two of his men, had been sobbing openly, letting out words that tripped over one another, that ended up making no sense.

I didn't know what was happening.

But then my father's arm rose.

A gun caught the moonlight.

And a loud bang stole my breath as my body jolted downward automatically.

And then the man slumped forward, blood around a hole in the center of his forehead.

I swallowed back the bile that rose up in my throat, trying to take slow, deep breaths, not scream, cry, demand to understand what was going on.

I guess it didn't matter.

All I knew was this was what my father did.

So this was what I would grow up to do.

That meant that I needed to harden myself to it.

I turned, walking on stiff yet shaky legs back to the car, climbed into the backseat, stared out my window.

I didn't even bother to yell at Matteo for ripping the pages out of my comic book.

Suddenly, comic books, and the men with guns inside of them, paled in comparison to real life.

I was going to be someone in those stories.

And it seemed like I was more than likely going to be the villain.

Like my father.

Who climbed back into the car like nothing had happene

d, telling us he would get us some ice cream when we got home because we were good and stayed in the car like he told us to.

I spent the ride back coming to terms with my future.

As a bad guy.

Just like my father.

I wasn't sure why those thoughts were on my mind while I drove to the docks when I hadn't given that night much thought in a couple decades.