“I’ve made my contribution. I’m done.” He waved his right hand like he was dismissing an entire life.
“Oh, please. I don’t like to hear this.” Mom said, brow furrowed, the corners of her eyes creased, the edges of her lips turned down.
“What do you mean, done? Like done done? With your life?” I was curious about this feeling of his.
“Yes,” he said. He rubbed his hands on the table. It was a tell, his whiskey buzz settling in.