The phone rang late Sunday afternoon. My mom’s voice sounded worried, concerned, like some uncomfortable question was coming. I knew this tone, knew it usually meant something was wrong. Nothing tragic or anything like that. But something. Still, I had no idea what it could be, no idea what was coming.
“Rustin,” my mom said. “Do you have any need for the PlayStation downstairs in the basement? Your dad just threw it in the trash.” Continue reading
The Brew House 