We start walking again, slower this time.
“In treatment, they made us recite the Twelve Steps every morning,” Dad continues. “And for the longest time, I couldn’t get past Step Three. ‘Make a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God.’ I kept thinking, ‘I don’t need God, I just need to be better. Stronger. More disciplined.’”
He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound.
“Your mother used to say the same thing to me. Before she got sick. I was always chasing the next big thing—the business idea that would make us rich, the investment that couldn’t fail, the dream that was just around the corner. She’d say, ‘Robert, you can’t outrun reality. You can’t charm your way into success. You have to do the work.’”
The path curves around a stand of pines, and we follow it.
“She was right. But I didn’t listen.” He looks down at his hands. “Then she got sick. And the medical bills piled up. And I couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t charm it away. Couldn’t dream it better.”
“Dad. That wasn’t your fault?—”
“I know. But grief doesn’t care about logic. I blamed myself. Started drinking to numb it. And then I couldn’t stop.”
We pass a bench, and he gestures to it. We sit.
“Then I came here,” Dad continues, “and something changed. I realized I can’t control this. I can’t white-knuckle my way to being okay. I can’t dream my way out of addiction. I need help. From God, from counselors, from AA meetings, from people who understand. And it’s okay to need that help. It’s okay to not be okay.”
He looks at me, and I feel my throat go dry.
“But here’s what I learned—we don’t need to hide anything from God. We’re already broken, and He loves us anyway. That’s what grace means.” He pauses. “Your mom understood that.”
“Mom?”
“She knew I was a dreamer. Knew I was selling her castles in the sky when I could barely afford a one-bedroom apartment. But she loved me anyway.” He smiles. “I asked her out seven times before she finally said yes. She kept saying no because she wasn’t sure I was serious. But finally she said, ‘Okay, Robert. But promise you’ll never stop trying. Not for the dreams. Just to be a good man.’”
I’ve never heard this story.
“She was something, your mom.”
“I know.” My voice comes out raw.
“We went to one of your games,” Dad says quietly. “You remember? Junior year, state championship. She was so sick by then, I had to carry her into the arena—wheelchair wouldn’t fit in our section. We sat there and watched you play. You scored the winning goal.”
I remember that game. Remember seeing them in the stands, Mom wrapped in blankets, Dad holding her hand.
“After you won, she looked at me and said, ‘We did this. We made him.’ And I said, ‘He’s nothing like me, thank God.’ And she grabbed my face—weak as she was, she grabbed my face—and said, ‘Don’t give up on God, Robert. Don’t give up on yourself. The only thing that matters is what He thinks of us. And He already loves us.’”
He looks at me.
“I lost sight of that.” His voice breaks as he puts a hand on my shoulder. “And I think I made you lose sight of it too.”
“Dad…”
“I wasn’t a good father, Brody. I know that. But I want to be. I have to ask, can you forgive me?”
My eyes are burning, throat stinging. “Yeah, Dad. I forgive you.”
Dad gives me a watery smile. Wipes his eyes. “I love you, son.”
“I love you.” In that moment, I don’t care that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man. I hug my dad. I hold on to him, bury my face against his shoulder.
God, please let this be real. Please let this last.
At last, he pulls away, clasping a hand on the back of my neck. “All right, now I think it’s time we talk about you.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
