“She worked three jobs some years,” he goes on, eyes unfocused. “Taught piano in the mornings, waited tables at night, cleaned officeson the weekends. I wore secondhand everything. Lunch was sometimes peanut butter on crackers. Birthdays were whatever she could scrape together. But she wasthere, you know?” He looks at me now, finally. “She showed up. Even when she was exhausted. Even when her hands shook from scrubbing floors all day. She never let me feel like I was unwanted.”
My throat tightens. I squeeze his hand. My heart’s still bruised, but the way he’s looking at me? It’s real.
“I used to think I didn’t care,” he says. “About him. That I didn’tneedhim. But then I got older and started seeing how easy he made things for people hedidclaim. Private schools. Inheritances. Careers handed over like party favors. And my mom? She nearly broke her back to get me through school and keep me fed.”
Max continues. “And now he emailed. Wants to meet. Says he’s been ‘watching my career from a distance.’ Like that makes up for 32 years of silence.”
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
His answer is immediate. “I want to tell him to go to hell.”
But then he adds, more quietly, “But I also want to look him in the eye and askwhy. Why he never called. Why he didn’t care. I want him to see that I made it anyway. Without him. Because of her.”
A lump forms in my throat. I see him now, not just as the man on stage, or the one who kissed me breathless in an elevator. I see the boy he was—the one holding his mom’s hand in thrift stores, the one who learned how to make a guitar sing because it was the only thing he could control.
“You don’t owe him anything,” I say.
“I know.” He looks at me, raw and open. “But maybe I owe it to myself to face him. Just once.”
I nod. “Then I’ll be right here when you do.”
And he pulls me into him, holding on like I’m the only steady thing left.
We sit in silence for a few breaths. Max’s hand is still wrapped in mine, his thumb moving absentmindedly over my knuckles. His body is warm beside me, steady, but I can feel the storm inside him. The weight of 32 years pushing against the edge of one email.
“He wants to meet,” Max says again, more to the room than to me. “Like he’s entitled to just... walk in now. After everything.”
“You’re angry,” I say gently.
“I should be,” he snaps, then immediately softens. “Sorry. I just—I hate that he gets to show up now, when I’ve finally built something. When I don’t need him. I hate that it still matters.”
“It mattersbecauseit was never resolved,” I say. “Not because you want anything from him. You’re not a child looking for his approval. You’re a man who deserves answers.”
He stares down at our hands. “What if I go and all I get is more silence? Or worse—some polished PR apology with caviar breath?”
I smile a little. “Then at least you’ll know. At least you won’t be stuck wondering.”
His eyes flick to mine. Cautious. Searching. “You think I should meet him?”
I take a deep breath. “I think... it could be good for you. Not forhim. Not to give him anything. But to take something back. Your voice in all of this. Your choice.”
He watches me like he’s seeing something he doesn’t quite know what to do with.
“I’m scared I’ll lose my mind if I sit across from him,” he admits. “Say things I can’t take back.”
“Then say them,” I whisper. “Say everything. You’ve earned the right.”
His jaw clenches. “I don’t want this to mess us up.”
“It won’t.” I slide my fingers up to cup his cheek. “But you have to go into this knowing you’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to hurt. And you’re allowed to leave that meeting with nothing but clarity.”
He leans into my touch, eyes closing. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” I say. “But you’re not alone in it.”
He nods slowly, like he’s letting the idea settle. Then, finally, he exhales.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll meet him.”
