The next morning, Dad came to our house.

He stood on the porch in his old football jacket, holding his cap in his hands, like a teenage boy coming to pick up a date.

Dan opened the door.

Dad couldn't look at him at first.

“That three hundred thousand,” Dad said finally. “The rest of my retirement. If I'd put it in like I wanted to…”

He swallowed.

“We'd have lost the house,” he said. “Sharon and me. Forty years in that house. I'd have handed it to that crook with a smile on my face.”

“You didn't, Ron.”

“Because of you.” Dad's voice cracked. “Because you sat at my table and told me not to, in front of everyone, and let him make a fool of you for it. And I laughed. I called you jealous.” He held out his big hand.

“I've called you the Professor for fifteen years, son,” he said. “As a joke. I'm not going to make that joke anymore.”

Dan shook his hand.

“I kind of liked it,” said Dan.

Dad laughed. Then he pulled Dan into a huge bear hug that lifted him off the porch.

I watched from the kitchen window and cried into the dishwater.