Because nobody gets to that tone for free. You don't just wake up one day and say "oh yeah, my dad killed himself" like that unless you've already bled over it a hundred times where no one can see.
I imagine him hearing that news. Or finding out how. How many nights did he fall asleep with swollen eyes before he learned to say it like a trivia fact?
"I—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "Gio..."
He doesn't look up.
I swallow hard. "I didn't know."
"I don't blame you," he says. "Most people don't. My mother probably lies about it to everyone."
I don't know how to hold all of this.
This man looks untouchable.
And he carries this.
He carriesthis.
My voice is barely audible. "I'm so sorry."
He gives a tiny shrug. "It is what it is."
"No, it's not," I say quickly.
"After it happened, everyone who knew him talked like they were experts. Like they know what led to it. They say he was tired. Depressed. Overworked."
He pauses. "No one mentioned your father."
My heart starts beating faster. "What?"
He looks up now. "Not that it's your fault, but your dad ruined him." He goes on, slower.
"They built the company together. Partners. At first. But then your father decided mine is 'dead weight.' Started shutting him out. Undermining him. Publicly. Humiliating him in front of clients. Took all the credit. Took everything."
I shake my head. "I didn't know that."
He stares at me. "Of course you didn't. Why would they tell you?"
I'm so embarrassed. My eyes sting. I don't know what to say.
There's no right sentence for "my dad killed himself."
Nothing I say is going to make that smaller, or less ugly. So I do the only thing that makes sense in my head.
I do what he did for me when I needed it.
I put my bottle down, turn toward him, and wrap my arms around him.
For a second he goes completely still. Whatever.
He can make fun of me tomorrow. Right now, I'm doing what I feel like he actually needs. I press my cheek against his shoulder, hold him a little tighter.
I don't let go. Because when I was falling apart, he didn’t give me a speech. He just showed up.
So that's what I'm doing now. "I'm so sorry," I say again, but this time it cracks.
"Gio, I... I didn't know. I swear I didn't."
