I guess I should have known this was coming, sooner or later. My old man, he’s been retired from the plant for what, fifteen years now? More. But he still acts like he’s running the show, even from his armchair. Calls me every other day, "You clocked in yet? Don’t be late, boy." As if I’m still a greenhorn, as if he’s still clocking me in. He built half that place with his own two hands, or so he tells it, every single bloody time. And I believe him, too. The man was a titan, back then. A foreman. So last night, he calls. Voice all raspy, a little quiet for him. Said he’s got a problem with the old lathe, the one in his garage. The big one, the beauty he practically lived for, the one he built himself from spare parts he "borrowed" from the factory floor back in the day. Said, "She’s seized up, son. Think you could take a look? You always had a knack for my machines." My machines. That’s what he said. *My* machines. And I just… I felt this thing, this hollow ache, right in the middle of my chest. Not a sharp pain, not a burst of anger. Just a dull throb. Because I work the same damned line he did, for thirty years now. Same grime, same grease under the fingernails. And he asks me to fix *his* machine. Not *the* machine. Not even *a* machine. His. Like I’m still just his little apprentice, not a man who’s put in more time on the factory floor than he did by the time he was my age. I said I’d be over Saturday. What else was I gonna say? No? He’s my dad. And it’s not even that I mind helping him, that’s not it. It’s just… you spend your whole life trying to get out from under someone’s shadow, trying to make your own way, even if it’s on the exact same goddamn path. And then they just pull you right back in, like it’s nothing. Like you never even left. I sat in the kitchen after the call, just staring at the flickering light on the fridge. My wife asked what was wrong, and I just shook my head. How do you explain that? How do you tell someone that the sound of your own father asking you for help, something you should feel proud of, just made you feel like you were fifteen again, fumbling with a wrench, trying desperately to prove you were good enough for him? It’s a gut punch, only it doesn’t even hurt that much. Which, maybe, is the worst part of all.