I called him, and the minute he answered, the brave front I had been putting up finally gave way. I told him about the empty chairs, the Hawaii photos, and the demand for money to fund Tyler’s new sports bar. Silas didn’t interrupt or defend them, and when I was done, he told me my father should be ashamed of himself.
“You did nothing wrong,” Silas said firmly, his old Marine tone cutting through the fog in my head.
He told me that the selfishness in them didn’t start today and that I needed to stop calling their sickness my burden. He said he was coming over right away, and three hours later, his dusty pickup truck pulled into my driveway. He walked in carrying a stockpot of homemade chicken soup and a six pack of beer.
We sat at the kitchen table while the soup warmed, and he handed me a cold beer without making a big ceremony out of it. Silas started talking about my father, explaining that Paul always cared more about looking right than actually being right. He said that my father collected appearances and called it character, while Tyler had been raised to think he could do no wrong.