"No." My voice cracked. "It wasn't. I was a coward."
Something shifted in his expression. Not forgiveness—not yet. But maybe the beginning of it.
"You're my son." The words came out rough and strained. "I don't care who you—" He stopped, then started again. "I need time to adjust to all of this. But I need you to understand something." He met my eyes. "Nothing you could have told us would have been worse than not knowing if you were alive. Nothing."
I nodded, unable to speak.
"Don't ever do that again." His voice broke on the last word. "Don't ever disappear like that again."
"I won't. I promise."
He stood there for a moment longer, jaw working. Then he sat back down, leaving more space between us than before.
My mother squeezed my hand. "The person you've been with. The one who helped you."
I nodded.
"Is he good to you?"
"Yes. He is."
She glanced at my father, who was staring at the floor, jaw still tight.
"Then I'd like to meet him," she said. "Someday. When you're ready."
My father said nothing, but he didn't object either.
Baby steps.
The conversation continued, though it never fully thawed.
My mother asked about my life—where I'd been, what I'd been doing. I told her about the bookstore, Miriam and her Russiannovels, and learning to cook, to exist as a person instead of just a role.
My father listened but said little. Occasionally, he'd ask a practical question—did I have health insurance, was I safe where I was living—but he kept his distance, processing in his own way.
"Elizabeth has been asking about you," my mother said. "She's not angry, just worried."
"I owe her a real apology."
"She'd appreciate that. When you're ready."
When we finally stood to leave, the goodbyes felt awkward.
My mother held me for a long time, whispering apologies and promises I couldn't quite make out.
My father hesitated, then offered his hand. A handshake. Formal. Safe.
I took it.
"This isn't a no," he said quietly. "I just need time."
"I know."
"Come to dinner sometime." He paused, swallowed. "Both of you. When I'm ready."
Not perfect. Not even close. But it was something.
In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, I leaned against the wall. My legs felt unsteady.
