The screen on my right comes alive as my father blinks into view. He looks smaller than he’s ever been in my memory, shoulders caved in, skin that looks like paper that’s been folded too many times. He looks frail. He was never kind. These things can both be real. Frailty doesn’t erase harm. Age doesn’t invent remorse.
I feel Beckett behind me like a steady wall. I think about Sofia in the hall, and the way she said my name. I think about Finn and Spencer, and Mazie’s gummy grin. I think about the bench on the deck, about the word love landing in my mouth like something I get to keep, that’s just for me.
I’m not the kid who listens for footsteps anymore. I’m the man who built a life, and I’m here to protect it.
The room doesn’t feel like a trap now. It feels like a choice.
I lift my chin, lay my paper on the podium so the pages don’t shake in my hands, and meet the board’s eyes—not his.
“Members of the Parole Board, my name is Domenico DeLuca, and I’m here to oppose parole for my father, Lorenzo De Luca, who is incarcerated for money laundering. I am here, not writing from anger, but for the life I’ve built since he went to prison, and from the daily fear I still carry about where I would be if he hadn’t.
“I left home at sixteen. I finished school, learned a trade, and have worked steadily ever since. I pay my bills, my taxes, and own and maintain a safe home. I keep a clean record. No one did this for me. People showed me a door, but I’m the one who walked through it and did the work on the other side. Today I have a stable job, a home that is mine, and a community that relies on me and that I rely on in return.
“I’m in a committed relationship with a partner who is kind and steady. I’ve developed an amazing group of friends with whom I share meals and plans. We look after each other the way a real family should. This is my family—my chosen one—and their safety is my first responsibility.
“The crime my father committed is often called ‘nonviolent.’ In our house, it didn’t feel that way. Money was used to control, isolate, and frighten. People came to our door at all hours. There were threats behind jokes. There was constant instability. That harm does not end with a sentence date; it changes how you live.
“Since his incarceration, my father has not accepted responsibility. In letters, he minimizes what he did and asks for help without acknowledging the damage he caused. He has not made amends. He has not shown the insight or accountability that would make me believe things would be different if he were released.
“Every day I think about the other path, the one where he never went to prison. I know what that life would’ve looked like for me: more fear, more pressure to be useful to his interests, less chance of ever becoming the man I am now. His incarceration gaveme the possibility of safety and growth. I used that possibility. I built something good. I’m asking you to help me protect it.
“Releasing him would not simply be a matter of forgiveness or a ‘second chance.’ It would bring back the same pressures and risks that defined my childhood, and it would put my partner and my chosen family in harm’s way. I cannot accept that for them.
“For these reasons, I respectfully ask the board to deny parole. If the board considers release despite my request, I ask that you impose the strictest conditions available: a no-contact order with me and my family, a stay-away radius from my workplace and home, mandatory supervision, and any other safeguards you deem appropriate.”
An eerie laugh echoes through the room, making my skin crawl.
“I always knew you were a shitty son.”
I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes forward. He’s not worth my attention.
“Family!” he continues. “Those people aren’t your family. You turned your back on your real family. You’re just fooling yourself. They don’t care about you. What could you possibly have to bring to the table? Nothing.”
I suck in a breath; his harsh words bring every fear I have to the forefront. My stomach turns and I want to vomit, until I feel a gentle touch that holds the weight of the world. I don’t hear him stand up, but I feel his presence behind me before he threads his fingers through mine.
“You are so very, very wrong, Mr. De Luca. Domenico”—I roll my eyes, and I see the corners of his mouth lift—“has everything to bring to the table. He has integrity. He’s a man of his word, and he shows up even when it’s inconvenient. When a friend calls at two a.m., he’s the one who shows up with a set of keys and a calm voice. On moving day, he’s there early and leaves last. He’saccountable. When he misses, he owns it. No excuses. He apologizes, changes, and follows through. His words today stayed with the facts. He didn’t ask for revenge. He asked for safety. And courage. He chose a life that doesn’t look like the one he was handed. He chose boundaries. He chose kindness. He chose to be here today.”
I stare at Beckett, heart beating out of my chest. No one has ever…
All these feelings hurt so bad, yet feel so good. Pride builds in my chest.
“You asked what he brings to the table,” he finishes. “Integrity, accountability, reliability, respect, courage, and a community that trusts him because he earns it. He is not the man on that screen. He is the man who made a home where there wasn’t one and invited the rest of us to sit down. Dom’s childhood… it wasn’t harmless. You—” he says, looking at my father. Something I’ve yet to do. “Have never taken responsibility for that harm. Dom has spent years doing the opposite, making things safer, steadier, kinder.”
He looks at me.
“So yeah, he brings more to this table than you ever will,” he says.
My father starts spouting off, but I pay no attention, his homophobic words falling flat.
“You are worth so much more than you give yourself credit for.”
“I could say the same about you,” I reply, a smile playing at my lips. He rolls his eyes, but a grin splits across his face from ear to ear.
“Mr. De Luca, you’re not helping your case,” the woman says. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut before you say something that will add even more time to your sentence.”
I finally turn and look at my father. He’s red-faced and angry. “You’re a shit son, always will—” That’s all I hear before the feed cuts.
The chair creaks. Papers shuffle. The woman in the middle closes her file and looks up. “Mr. De Luca, you won’t have to worry for a while. Parole is denied.”
