He wore those slippers until they split at the lip,
wore down the heels to holes.

I bought them for him when I was eighteen,
and they stayed with him through one move,
two weddings, and his father’s passing.

His wife hated those worn-out moccasins,
said he wouldn’t let her touch or replace them.

His first ever pair of slippers had come
from a girl who thought he could use them—
because he was always working,
always wearing boots hard to get on and off.

My first real job paid for them.
He knew that,
and it was his quiet way of praising me—
of accepting me,
something his wife couldn’t do,
not even if hell froze over.

She wielded acceptance and love as power.
He wore those slippers to the ground
to show her different.

The politics of in-laws.

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