Page 79 of Last Love

And I’m not here to pretend like it does so that he can die less fucking miserable.

“Would you like me to have Janet bring you something else? Soda? Juice? Water? Perhaps herbal tea? She has a family home remedy version that I’ve come to really-”

“Why did you wanna see me?”

One of his hands motions to the empty chair across from him. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No.”

“You sure? There are plenty of spaces around the room for you to do it without coming too close to me,” he good-naturedly teases.

“I won’t ask you again.”

His smile instantly fades.

“I’ll just fucking leave.”

“No,” he swiftly pleads, hand reaching out desperately my direction, “please stay, Ryder.”

Completely caught off guard by the response paralyzes me in place.

“Dying…,” my father begins again at the same time he seeks comfort in his seat, “um…makes a man really think.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“It really has a way of forcing you to look at the life you’ve lived. Evaluate what’s really worth anything or what really meant what.”

Strangely enough being on the brink of suicide has a way of doing the same.

“I’ve made many mistakes in my lifetime, Ryder. Shady deals. Betrayed those I called friends. Was unfaithful to more than one woman I loved. However, the one I regret making the most is the way I treated you.”

Chomping down on the stick in my mouth is mindlessly done.

“You never deserved to be cast aside.”

My ability to breathe unexpectedly grows difficult.

“You never deserved the hate you received.”

The constriction in my chest increases.

“It was not your fault that our marriage was failing. It was not your fault that we didn’t love each other. It was not your fault that I regretted settling down too early. It was not your fault you’re your mother wanted to be a trophy wife but not a mother.”

Disbelief that my ears aren’t deceiving me leads to me gently rubbing.

“And it was not your fault that you were born as the scapegoat that we never stopped crucifying.”

A lump in the back of my throat appears.

Slowly swells.

Requests soothing assistance in the form of kush – green, purple, or even fucking Afghan.

I won’t give into my senses wordlessly imploring for substance pacification.

No.

Not this time.

Not ever fucking again.

My father lets out a heavy sigh and tosses the book he was reading across the way onto the chair I refused to occupy. “What kind of people do that shit?”

Shitty ones.

“What kind of parents do that to their own child?”

This time the answer is not only repeated but spoken, “Shitty ones.”

“I honestly don’t think we were ever meant to be parents, Ryder.”

Oh, look.

Something we can fucking agree on.

“It was simply what was expected of us at the time. It followed the formulaic routine of the generation we were brought up by and in. It was my job to meet a list of requirements just as much as it was your mother’s. At some point, – ideally – love should’ve factored into it. At some point…I like to think that it did. Now, whether or not that’s true or simply my own wishful thinking acting up again, I’m not sure. And given what I now know real loves feels like…,” an almost dopey smile is momentarily flashed, “it certainly seems to be the latter.”

Part of me hates that he found love.

And part of me is relieved because it may help him grasp the damage he caused a little fucking better.

“When your brother was born, he gave me something to have focus on other than the long hours I was putting into work and a drained bank account. And when your sister was born, she gave your mother a sense of duty and excitement to shape something into a miniature version of her – thank fuck she was only mildly successful. But you…you, Ryder, were the unforeseen embodiment of our mistakes as a whole as much as individuals. No one likes to stare their failures in the eyes, especially every night at bedtime.”

My jaw trembles in outrage.

Dejection.

Understanding.

“You reserve every right to hate me. Hell, I hate me for what I put you through. For rejecting you when it was obvious that all you wanted was approval. For ignoring you when all you wanted was a mere slice of attention. For disregarding your devotion to wanting a life led by something other than money. For never letting you know that you were good enough. That it was us who weren’t good enough for you.”

The toothpick almost tumbles out due to my now slightly cracked jaw.

“I wanted to see you one final time, not so that I could ask for forgiveness I know I don’t deserve, but to give you the opportunity to persecute me for my crimes against you, and to tell my youngest son…who I never gave a fair chance to be my son, that I’m sorry.”

Tears that don’t belong in this moment prick my eyes and tickle along the back of my throat.

No.

No!

Dying doesn’t automatically absolve him for all of that shit!

He gives his chest a small rub as if air is having a hard time coming in. “I am sorry, Ryder. I am so, so sorry for everything.”

The words tumble past my parted lips in an artic nature. “I. Hate. You.”

More nodding.

More inward shrinking.

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