Page 96 of Shattering

I don't know how to start this one. I don't even know if I should be writing it, but I feel like I need to, so here it is.

I've been thinking about Finn. About David. About the men who were supposed to be something to me and weren't.

Finn—the bastard who fathered me.

David—the bastard who raised me.

I spent years thinking David was my father. He made sure I knew I wasn't wanted, but I still thought he was mine. That if I could just be good enough, quiet enough, strong enough, he'd stop looking at me like I was some unwanted weight on his shoulders.

But I was never enough. Not for him. Not for that house.

And now, knowing the truth? That my real father wasn't just some absent figure, but a rapist, a man who took what he wanted and left destruction behind?

I feel like I was doomed from the start.

What does that say about me? About the blood in my veins?

It's like both of them—Finn and David—had their hands on me in different ways. One by creating me, the other by breaking me.

And now Callum.

I know I should be a better man and see him as a brother, to believe there's something worth salvaging there, but I can't.

He knew, Cadi. He always knew. And he watched me get knocked down, kicked, bruised, and beaten by David, and he never said a damn thing.

How do I forgive that?

How do I look him in the face and pretend?

I don't think I ever will.

But you—you've been the only steady thing in my life.

I've been thinking a lot about why I became a doctor. People always ask me why I didn't just stick with rugby. I was good at it. Some days, I still miss it—the way the game felt, the noise of it, the clarity of being on the pitch. But that life... I don't know where it would've taken me.

I know where you took me.

You always pushed me to think about what came after the game. What happened when the final whistle blew? When the body started breaking down? When the crowds stopped cheering?

I didn't have an answer.

You gave me one.

Even back when we were kids, you were looking out for me.

You probably don't even remember this, but I do.

We were twelve, and I'd started training harder, trying to get stronger, trying to prove myself. But weekends were rough. I'd come home exhausted, starving, but sometimes my mam wasn't up to cooking. Some days, she couldn't even get out of bed.

I never told you.

But you noticed.

One afternoon, you just slid an extra sandwich across the table, all casual-like, like it was nothing.

"For the match." you would say.

And the next week, you did it again.

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