Tristan wept, unable to look away.

“I mow lawns, I carry soil, I clean gardens every day,” my father said. “None of that makes me less of a man.” He touched his chest with a calloused hand.

“What makes a person poor isn’t having little money. It’s believing money gives you the right to trample other people.”

Tristan had nothing to say to that.

“I forgive you, so I don’t carry hatred in my heart,” my father finished. “But forgiving you doesn’t mean helping you escape federal justice.”

Those quiet words hit harder than any shouting could have. Tristan left with his head down. It was the last time I saw him outside a courtroom.