“I really don’t want to have this conversation, Dad,” I said. “I’ve already made up my mind. I want to study at University.”

He looked at me with that mortified expression he wears every time the subject of my preferences comes to topic.

“Son,” He replied in a low voice, almost hushed, “I really hoped you would follow me into the family business. It’s tradition. My father. . . His father and grandfather . . . Generations . . .”

I knew the drill. He was as passionate about his work as I was about Feng Shui and the delecate art of establishing harmony between colors and objects within a room.

“Dad, I know you worked hard to raise us kids and take care of mom.” My eyes begged him to listen. “But I could never be a shooter. The idea of spilling blood just leaves me nauseous.”

Oh yes. He was just crushed by my rejection of all the things he held dear. He was exquisitely good at what he did for a living. I could never measure up to his standard.

After all, who would ever take a gay hit man seriously?