You wouldn't know it to look at him. That’s what I was thinking, all be it a ridiculous observation to make. He just walked like any man with a carrier bag; he returned to his house like any father does. He looked at the sun and felt it lick at his skin. He bent down and picked up junk mail. He had a plain face and didn't even look tired. Why should he? I didn't know of any sleepless nights, I didn't see any exhausted eyes. You would never know to look at him that his boy had killed himself only last month.
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