It was, but that doesn’t mean it was clean.
I open my eyes and look at the image one last time, committing details I already know by heart. Then I close the folder. I don’t delete it. I don’t think I ever will.
A call comes through just as I click the laptop shut, and Beck’s name lights up the screen.
I let it ring once longer than necessary, then answer. “Yeah.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” Beck mocks, dry and familiar. “Merry Christmas to you, too, asshole.”
“It’s Christmas?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. You don’t do calendars,” he counters. “That didn’t stop you from sending the family gifts like you’re trying to buy forgiveness for existing off-grid.”
“They’re presents, not a confession.”
Beck snorts. “Daisy thinks you’re some kind of mythological figure, Oliver won’t stop chewing on whatever you sent him, and Luella’s room looks like a rainbow threw up in there, considering everything you sent her. The wives say thank you for everything.”
I picture it easily—the family home, Iron Stallion, loud and full, kids underfoot, chaos wrapped in warmth. A place I orbit but don’t enter.
“Tell them it’s nothing.”
“That’s not how gratitude works.”
Silence stretches comfortably between us. Beck’s always been good at that. He knows when to let it breathe. He’s the only one in my family I really talk to, but only because he calls too much. He’s also the only one who’s ever been here, a while back, while he was in a bit of a bind with his lady, now wife, Quinn.
“You coming by this year?” he asks, tone casual, but the question deliberate.
“No.”
He doesn’t push; he never does. “You know you’d be welcome.”
“I know.”
I love my family to death, and I’m always there for them. I recall birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and holidays and send gifts, but they are better off without me and my demons.
“Dad’s good. Ella asked about you. Again.”
I exhale slowly. “She always does.”
“She worries.”
“Tell her not to.”
A soft huff of laughter. “You know that won’t work.”
I can hear the smile in his voice when he adds, “She says hi, by the way. Told me to tell you she’s proud of you. Whatever that means in Ella language.”
Something tightens briefly in my chest. I ignore it. “Tell her I’m fine, and that I’m sorry I missed her wedding.”
“You always are,” Beck replies, not unkindly. “Or at least that’s what you want us to think.”
I don’t respond, because there’s nothing to add.
“I should let you go. I just wanted to say thanks, and… if you change your mind, you know where we are.”
“I know, thanks.”
We hang up without ceremony. No promises made, no expectations set. Just the quiet understanding that blood doesn’t require proximity to stay intact. I don’t consider myself a family man, but I take care of what’s mine, even from a distance.
