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On Sundays my father always wore that dull gray apron(围裙)—the one with the race cars all over it. The tradition began after breakfast when Dad always announced: “Go ahead everyone.I’ll take care of the dishes！” With that my mother disppeared into the folds to the Sunday paper.Off came the suit coat he had worn to church that morning. Up went the shirtsleeves. On went apron.For the next hour Dad did the dishes, singing ballads like “I Had a Hat When I Came In” and “Who Put the Chow in Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder？”
I suppose it was strange for a boy’s father to wear an apron—even one with race cars, but I never thought much of it until the day that Dad broke with tradition. It was the last Sunday in August. My father seemed in an expansive mood as we walked home from church together.
“Tommy，” he said letting my name roll off his tongue. My mind raced ahead of his words：The birds and the bees? A new bike? A parttime job?
“There comes a time in every boy’s life when he must take on responsibilities.”
“Responsibilities？” I asked.
