And then I did something that would have seemed impossible to the father I was when Annabelle started kindergarten.
I took off the rain jacket.
I walked back through those school doors in my leather cut.
Not because I had suddenly stopped caring what people thought.
Because, finally, I understood whose opinion mattered most.
Over my heart was the smallest patch on the vest.
Four years old, handmade, imperfect.
DAD.
For sixteen years, I had worn patches that told the world where I belonged.
It took my daughter to remind me which one told the truth most clearly.
