It was a quiet Thursday night at Murphy’s Tavern — the kind of night where the neon lights buzzed louder than the conversations. Only a handful of regulars sat scattered around, nursing their drinks in comfortable silence. That’s when the door opened and a man walked in, his suit wrinkled, his face tired, and his spirit clearly heavier than his briefcase.
He slid onto a barstool and gave the bartender a weary nod.
“Rough day?” the bartender asked, polishing a glass.
The man sighed. “You could say that. Just found out my dad is gay.”
The bartender blinked, unsure how to respond. But experience told him — don’t judge, just pour. So he did. A double brandy, neat.
The man stared into the amber liquid for a while before drinking it down in one long gulp. He didn’t say another word that night.
The next evening, he was back — this time without a tie, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling slightly. He didn’t even sit up straight. “Six doubles,” he muttered.
“Everything okay?” the bartender asked carefully.
The man let out a humorless laugh. “Not really. Just found out my son’s gay too.”
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