And that mouth of hers. As sharp and precise as the tailored suits she wears, she’s always one second away from calling me on my bullshit.
I shouldn’t like that as much as I do.
The road winds tighter, houses giving way to dense evergreens. My phone buzzes on the console and Ford’s name lights up the screen. I ignore it. Another buzz, another message. Probably about tomorrow’s review meeting. It can wait.
I slow as I turn down a narrow lane, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The air feels heavier here, the silence has an eery quality to it, like something is lurking just out of sight. A modest bungalow appears through the trees, its siding weathered, the porch light flickering like it can’t decide whether to try to stay on or just give up.
My stomach knots the way it always does when I see the place. I remind myself I’m here out of obligation, not emotion. I shift into park and cut the engine. For a moment I just sit here, hands tightening on the wheel, headlights washing over the cracked steps.
Coming here doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t undo the years of absence, or the nights Mom cried herself to sleep. It doesn’t mean I think he’s a better man.
But still, I’m here.
Like always.
I blow out a slow breath, push the door open, and step into the chill.
“This isn’t forgiveness,” I mutter under my breath. “Just something I have to do.”
The porch creaks under my boots as I climb the steps. Cigarette smoke and the faint metallic bite of beer cuts through the scent of damp cedar in the air. I knock once out of habit, but I don’t wait for an answer before shoving the door open. It’s not locked. It hasn’t been for years.
“Dad?”
The living room looks the same as it always has—dark curtains drawn, a sagging couch covered in a blanket that’s seen better decades, and the flicker of a hockey game on a TV that’s older than me. Empty cans line the coffee table. A half-smoked cigarette balances on an ashtray beside a stack of unpaid bills.
He’s sitting in his usual spot, slouched back, a can in one hand and the remote in the other. His gray hair is longer than itused to be, scruff grown in unevenly along his jaw. He glances over his shoulder, squinting through the dim light.
“Well, look who decided to show up.” His voice is rough, years of whiskey and cigarettes ground into gravel.
I step inside, kicking the door shut behind me. “How are you holding up?”
He snorts. “Same as always.” He gestures toward the TV, where a replay flashes across the screen. “These idiots still can’t score to save their damn lives, but otherwise? Living the dream.”
There’s no dream here. Just the reek of stale beer and failure that clings to the walls. I move to the kitchen counter, where a couple of grocery bags still sit half-unpacked. I brought them last week—food, some cleaning supplies, a new bottle of aspirin. I set the grocery bag I brought with me beside it.
“Brought you a few things. I’ll put the fruit and vegetables in the fridge. You need anything else?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away, just takes a long drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Stop bringing this crap,” he mutters, nodding toward the groceries. “I don’t want it. I didn’t ask for charity.”
“It’s not charity,” I say quietly. “It’s groceries.”
He shoots me a look. “You’re just like your brother. Always have to play the hero.”
My jaw tightens. “Ford doesn’t even know I come here.”
That gets him. His eyes flicker up, sharp and searching, then soften with something I can’t quite name. Guilt, maybe. Or pride. It’s hard to tell with him.
“Smart,” he mutters after a beat. “He’d just tell you to stay away.”
“He already has.”
He laughs under his breath, a humorless grunt. “Figures. Ford’s always been tough. You, though…” He takes another drink and looks me over. “Still trying to fix people who don’t want to be fixed. You always had that soft streak. I thought I raised four men, but something went wrong with you.”
I glance around the room at the empty bottles, the yellowed walls, the reminders of a man who used to be someone else. “Maybe I just didn’t want to be like you.”
That earns me a glare, but he lets it go. He just turns back to the TV, jaw flexing. The silence stretches between us until it feels heavy enough to choke on.
After a while, I sink into the chair across from him. “You working much these days?”
