Sure, he’d got their invitation. Every god-damn year, he’d got it, no matter how far he’d roamed. Common decency suggested that it would be polite to respond, but he couldn’t even bring himself to make that much contact with the men who’d been his sons.

She’d warped them, made them weak. She’d even turned them against him, for all their pretty little notes asking him to ‘join them in remembrance’. He barely recognised them as the fruit of his loins, these days. They’d been to college, wore good suits and and had soft hands. Not to mention their mouthy wives with jobs of their own.

He laughed, bitterly, and took another swig of his whisky. Looking at the grease ingrained in the creases of his hands, he thought about turning up out of the blue, in his mechanic’s overalls, stinking of sweat and alcohol. They’d be ever so polite, he just knew. There’d be no scenes, no anger at his leaving them or less joy at his return.

How he hated the very thought of seeing them.

How had it all gone so very wrong?