Deshawn never called. Not on birthdays. Not at Christmas. Not once in fourteen years.
Then, three months ago, he suddenly returned. Apparently, Deshawn had remarried, become wealthy through commercial real estate, and found Reggie on Instagram.
He began sending him messages: That pathetic man isn’t your father. Forget him.
I’m your b. l. o. o. d. Reggie kept everything secret until the night before the state championship.
He sat at the foot of my bed and quietly said, “Dad, I invited him tomorrow.
Please try to understand.” I didn’t sleep that night. The next afternoon, Deshawn entered the gym wearing a navy suit worth more than my truck.
He sat in the front row. My row. “It’s time for Reggie to remember who his real father is,” he said with a smug smile.
Reggie scored ten points, and his team won by six. Afterward, they handed him the MVP trophy and a microphone.
“My real father is sitting inside this gym tonight,” Reggie announced.
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