Page 103 of October
The trial date was set. His name, once gold-embossed and whispered with reverence in polished halls, was now something to be avoided, muttered only behind closed doors. I'd already decided I would go. I'd made the decision knowing I needed to look him in the eye, one last time, for myself, not for him.
And then, as if on cue, the message from my lawyer arrived: "He wants to see you."
Of course he did. He always did when things started slipping through his fingers. It wasn't even surprising anymore. That twisted part of him that still believed he could call, and I'd come. Not because he deserved it but because some part of me, the part he raised, the part he conditioned, still flinched when his name lit up my screen.
He knew I'd come. He counted on it. Not out of love. That was long gone but out of something deeper. Older. The leftover muscle memory of being his son. Of being the one who held hissecrets, covered his tracks, absorbed his silence and his rage like a sponge and called it loyalty.
I hated how automatic it still felt, how the ache in my chest came not from the idea of seeing him, but from knowing I still didn't know how to say no and maybe that was why I said yes. Because somewhere between all the rage and the distance and the trauma, I needed to look him in the eye. I needed to feel nothing. I needed to know that whatever power he had over me was gone. Or going. Or dying, piece by piece, with every court date and every breath I took outside his orbit.
So I went.
The meeting was set in a downtown legal office, late afternoon. He was already seated when I walked in, alone, for once. No lawyers, no assistants. Just him, hunched slightly over the long oak table. His suit looked expensive but wrinkled. His face was grayer than I remembered, eyes dimmer, like someone had finally turned down the volume on his ego.
For the first time in my life, he looked... old. Not weak, exactly, but dulled. Like power had been drained from his bones and left him hollow. I sat down across from him, slowly. Not out of fear, but because I needed the pause. I needed the breath. My hands curled into fists beneath the table to stop them from trembling.
We stared at each other for a long moment. He looked at me like he always had, no warmth or apology, only calculation.
"You came," he finally said, his voice raspier than I expected. Then, with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, he added, " I knew you would."
I exhaled hard. "I don't even know why I came," I started, my voice rough. "Maybe because for years, I used to picture this moment. Me, finally saying everything I've never said and you..what? Apologizing? Explaining? I don't even know what I wanted anymore. Closure, maybe but it's not real, is it?"
He didn't move. So I let it spill, all of it.
"You spent my whole life reminding me what a failure I was. When I brought home good grades, you called them average. When I won that regional competition, you said it didn't count because it wasn't national. You mocked me when I cried, told me to man up when I was twelve and Mom left the room crying because you'd said something vile. You made me believe that kindness was weakness, that vulnerability was something to be ashamed of."
I leaned forward, hands clenched on the table. "You made me hate myself before I even understood who I was."
His jaw flexed, just barely, but he said nothing. I kept going.
"You turned me into someone I could barely look at in the mirror. I lied to my wife, convinced myself that what I did at work had nothing to do with who I was at home but it wasn't separate. It never was. I tried to be tough and determined because every time I tried to be soft, your voice in my head screamed that I was pathetic."
My throat burned.
"You hit me. You told me it was discipline. You humiliated me and called it 'character building.' I was a kid and you..." I swallowed the thickness in my throat. "You were the first man Iever wanted to love me and you made me think I had to earn it by breaking myself down."
My voice cracked, just once, but I didn't stop.
"I thought if I worked hard enough, succeeded enough, you'd finally see me. Be proud. But the truth is, you only saw me as a reflection of your own failures. You hated what I was because you hated yourself and when I started becoming something better, someone who tried to be gentle, who tried tofeelthings..." I shook my head. "You saw that as betrayal."
I stood, then leaned over the table slightly, my voice quieter, but sharper. "You know what's worse? I almost became you. That... that's what keeps me up some nights. You destroyed every part of me that wanted to love you. You made me into a man who almost lost the only good thing in his life, my wife and kids, because I was too busy chasing your approval like a beaten dog."
Still nothing.
"I came here today because I needed to look you in the eye and say this: I'm done. Done waiting for the father I deserved. Done carrying guilt that never belonged to me. You wrecked things in me I'm still trying to rebuild, but you don't get to wreck anything else."
Finally, he looked up. Eyes empty, expression flat.
Then, with the same cold, calculated voice he always used when he wanted to cut straight to the bone, the one that never rose, never needed to, because the venom was always in the precision, he leaned back in his chair like this was all just a dull inconvenience.
"Are you done?"
My whole body stilled.
There it was. That flat, unfeeling tone I knew too well. The one he used when I was a kid and crying too loud. When he dragged my mother's shame through the dirt like sport. When he punished silence as much as he punished words.
He looked at me like I was wasting his time.
"Do you feel better now?" he added, his voice dry as ash. "You got your little speech in. Got to be the wounded son with the righteous rage. You feel like a man now, finally?"
