When was the last time you received an apology that really hit home? A few weeks ago, I think I did. Dad was over for another session of foam rolling, still holding the title of tightest man alive. Surprised he hasn't imploded, I actually found myself enjoying the company, basking in an opportunity to stroke my inner child and show Dad how smart I am.

The topic changed to my brother and his recent employment issues working the front desk at a gym they both are belong to. He was reprimanded for the third time about his sugar going low, a constant issue for him, and in a preemptive strike, he quit.

I asked Dad, "What does he intend to do when he graduates?" To which he replied, "Go for a Master's degree, I think, although I think he'll have trouble getting a job with his insulin problems."

"Never mind that, he won't even get a second interview with his felonies."

"Yeah, you mentioned how hard it's been for you." His facial expression goes from blank to grimace as he rolls his IT band.

"Hard? Try damn near impossible. I can't even get in the door for a counseling job. They wouldn't even let me sweep the floors of a rehab. And he wants to work in healthcare? Good luck."

By now he's moved onto his thoracic and looks like an ironing board trying to balance on the roller, "Hold on, Dad, I need to modify this," I grab a towel, roll it up, and exchange it for the roller. All conversation ceases while the tries to bend his spine over the cushy towel.

"I'm getting nauseous," he says, rolling onto his side. Usually my clients go pale on me but Dad's Twilight complexion makes it hard to tell.

"Just take it slow."

He tries again with the same result, "Nope, I think I have to stop."

"Okay. I've never seen a thoracic so tight before. Next time we'll see how tight those rotator cuffs are. I'm betting they're like drums." I say, walking into the kitchen.

"Well, I appreciate you showing me this, son, got time for lunch?" he asks.

I check the clock, "Sure."

"Then I can drive you into work." he offers.

"Sounds great."

"You really think it's going to be that hard for him to find a job?" he asks somberly.

"Next to impossible, I'm afraid."

Like a thunderbolt hand delivered by Zeus, he says, "Geez, I'm sorry, Bry, this is all my fault."

"What is?" I ask, taken totally off guard while I fish through the cabinet for my keys.

"The robberies, they were all my fault."

I close the cabinet door as if to capture the reverberations and maybe play them later for Rachel. I pretend the admission doesn't knock the giant chip off my shoulder. I quell the desire to leap, jig, or otherwise break down, grab a rolling pin, and knock him senseless for taking twelve years to own up.

We go to lunch and talk, like a father and son.

Later, working out between clients, I text Rach, knowing she'll calculate the magnitude. I go to contacts in my cell and press the appropriate letter to bring up Damdams (One of many aliases I have for her including but not limited to: poodams, poodamacious knid, and our personal fav---rara). I texted: "Dad said sorry for the robberies and said it was all his fault," and sent it off.

A few seconds later, Darth Vader's labored breathing (Dad's ringtone) sings through my cell. Instantly, I realized my faux pas. My Freudian slip complete, I sent the text to the wrong contact. Instead of Damdams, my brain selected Dad. Panicked, I start pacing the gym floor. I couldn't recall the text, nor could I ignore the call. I dialed him back.

"Sent the text to the wrong person, ey son?" He asks.

"Dad, you have no idea how long I've waited for you to say that."

"Why?"

"Obvious reasons."

"Well, I'm glad I did the right thing."

"Me too."