My father held doors. Every door. For every person. For his whole life.
He’d get out of the car at the grocery store and walk around to the passenger side to open my mother’s door, and he did that until the week he went into the hospital at seventy-six. I was fourteen the first time I realized that other people’s fathers didn’t do that, and it genuinely shocked me.
So when I had a son, kh I decided early — maybe before he could walk — that I was going to raise that kind of man.
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A disappearing breed, my mother calls it. She’s not wrong.
By the time Mason was six, he knew the car door opened for his mother before it opened for him.
