He's thirteen the first time he gets caught breaking and entering.
It's the first Mother's Day after his mom's passing and he sneaks into the cemetery late at night with a wilted rose and a stolen card. He's drunk (thanks to that bottle of scotch he'd stolen from his old man's liquor cabinet) and stumbles several times before he reaches the stone with her name on it. He lies down next to the spot that had once been a mound of dirt and stares up at the starless sky. His eyes eventually drift shut whether form the alcohol or the burn of unshed tears he's not sure.
He's awakened by the nudge of steel-toed boots and a gruff voice telling him to get up slowly and to keep his hands where they can be seen. He's dazed, put off by his surroundings but he manages to stand despite the nausea rippling through his stomach and the blistering ache at the base of his skull.
The guard doesn't call the police but he does call his father who shows up a half an hour later (sorry, kid, but business comes first) to pick him up. The ride home is filled with an awkward silence that's laced with disappointment and resentment which will linger in every silence and conversation between them for years to come.