Chapter 8 - Sunday Evenings at Seven-Fifteen
The routine never changed, no matter how chaotic my week had become.
Every Sunday night at precisely 7:15 PM, my cell phone would buzz on the kitchen counter of my modest apartment.
I would pick it up, wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, and answer with a familiar smile.
"Hey, kiddo."
"Dad," Danny’s voice would come through the speaker—clear, steady, and sharp as a tack. "Did you check the weather report for Joliet tomorrow? Rain coming in from the west at 4:00 PM. Make sure you wear your waterproof jacket when you walk to the station."
"I've got it right by the door, Danny," I'd reply, leaning against the counter and looking out at the Chicago skyline twinkling in the distance. "How was your week at the warehouse?"
"Good," Danny would say, his tone crisp and methodical. "We processed four hundred and twelve pallet shipments on Tuesday. One of the boxes was mislabeled with an old SKU code. I caught it before it went onto the truck. My supervisor said my scan rate was the highest in the department."
"I knew it would be," I said, a deep, abiding warmth swelling in my chest. "You always were good at spotting the details everyone else missed."
"Dad?"
"Yeah, Dan?"
"Are you still wearing those silly leather shoes with your new CEO suit, or did you finally listen to me and buy sneakers?"
I looked down at my feet, where my scuffed, steel-toed work boots sat neatly by the front door, polished to a dull shine.
"I'm wearing the boots, Danny," I admitted with a quiet laugh. "Some things are too important to change."
May you like
"Good," Danny said firmly. "Boots are practical. You never know when you're going to have to fix something."
"Truer words were never spoken," I said.
