by Tamara Tee
Sitting at the head of the table, in the seat generally assumed by someone of importance, he gestured widely with both perfectly manicured hands. "He's a freshman at Endicott College," he actually bragged to the group of not-real-friends he was trying to impress at the tavern. As if he had anything to do with raising that child, and getting him to college. As if the association with an accomplished child made him a better man. As if he were an educated man himself, and really knows anything about the reputations of various schools beyond what he hears other people say. As if he had not already rejected my son as not being good enough for him to know.
Tamara Tee is a freelance writer and poet. She lives in a New England harbor town while raising two lively children, an indifferent cat, and a rather dopey pug named Pie. You can learn a bit more about her here.