I Came to the Memorial Day Cookout to See My Son

I came to the Memorial Day cookout to see my son. I found him on his knees on a rooftop in a white shirt, picking ribs off the concrete while his father-in-law stood over him laughing. "It's all he's good for," Harlan said in front of thirty guests, and not one person moved. I am fifty-nine years old and I have spent twenty-nine years reading other people's balance sheets for a living, so I said nothing on that roof. I waited until Tuesday morning, and then I opened a file Harlan had forgotten anyone could open.