“I’d like to thank you folks for comin’ out tonight and helping me celebrate my seventieth birthday.” Paul Weldon plucked the strings on his fiddle. “And I’d like to thank my daughter for this spiffy hat,” he tipped the orange cap. “Thank you, Paula—my namesake—my wonderful daughter, so proud of you.”
She stood outside the window, peering in, listening to her father’s words. It was the first time she’d ever heard him say them. “He’s proud of me,” the words choked in her throat.
Leaning her back against the building, Paula wiped the wetness from her cheeks, still the tears flowed. “That asshole waits till I’m nearly forty-five before he tells me he’s proud of me.”
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