We sat around the table in a seafood restaurant near the harbor; my father, his third wife, my brother, my brother's fiancee, and me. With a lull in the conversation we watched a fisherman pull up outside in a cube truck, open the back, and retrieve a large bag of mussels and a cooler.
My father began exactly where he left off.
"People in Montreal used to call me Dr. Finance, although my own finances are so screwed up they probably shouldn't have", he told us, chuckling at his own joke.
At least he doesn't have the delusion that he was worthy of the title, I thought to myself, although I have my doubts he was called that more than once.
"You know me. I'm a psychiatrist. I'm a psychologist. I'm a counselor. I'm a coach, I'm a -"
"Dad", I cut him off. "You're NONE of those things."
My brother choked on his coffee holding back a laugh.
My father raised his eyebrows, opening his mouth like he was going to say, 'I'll have you know...' something, but then he stopped, frozen for a moment, and let it pass.