Your mom would have been proud of you. I was wrong when I said you’d disappoint her. I’m the only one who let her down. She’d have been so happy to see the smart and brave woman you’ve become. She would have been the proudest grandmother. And she would have bragged to all her friends about what a wonderful mother you are.
I would like to say that I’m proud of you too, but I know you made yourself despite me, not because of me. I’m amazed by you, all the same.
I love you, Jamie. I’m just sorry it took me this long to say it.
Be brave, fuck fear.
Love always,
Dad
* * *
Truth rang from every line.
There was nothing to fact-check, no hidden motive to untangle. I didn’t need to analyze his tone or second-guess his intent. Somewhere deep inside me, I recognized it. This was what I had been searching for all along. The clarity. The guidance. The steady hand I’d pretended I didn’t need.
It wasn’t just my father’s truth. It reached further than that. Universal in a way that startled me, especially coming from him. The timing felt almost uncanny, like the words had waited for the exact moment I was ready to hear them.
It was so perfectly aligned with the chaos in my head that my vision blurred.
Not from sadness. Not from regret. There was no sharp edge of grief cutting through me.
It was joy—pure and startling, almost violent in its force.
It surged through my chest, crashing into every dark corner I’d been nursing. The doubts. The fear. The ache that had been living under my ribs and crushing my heart for days. None of it stood a chance.
The pain loosened. The apprehension dissolved. I could do this.
Be brave.
Fuck fear.
DAY PLUS 1
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jamie
I danced through my downtown Toronto apartment, singing off-key and not caring who might hear.
Anyone watching would never guess my father had died two days ago. That I’d left my son behind. That somewhere in a hospital, an extraordinary man and his family were waiting for a miracle I’d walked away from.
No one would know and, in that moment, I didn’t feel it either.
The darkness that had been stalking me for over a week had simply…lifted. In its place was something bright and steady. I was filled with confidence, momentum, and a sharp, electric optimism that made it impossible to stand still.
I moved because I could. Shimmying through the kitchen. Spinning past the couch. I’d spent too much of my life sheltering in place. Not enough time dancing.
Even without my voice echoing off the walls, the apartment hummed with life. Street noise rose through the open windows. Car horns. Snatches of conversation. A siren somewhere in the distance. Neighbors moved above and below me, footsteps and plumbing and the faint thud of bass through drywall.
That was what I’d always loved about this city. It swallowed you whole and somehow made room at the same time. You could disappear into it without ever feeling erased. There was comfort in the anonymity. In being one of millions. In knowing no one was watching too closely.
But it was lonely, too.
I lived surrounded by people who didn’t know my name. Neighbors were door numbers. The couple in 810 fought like it was a nightly ritual, their arguments bleeding into the hallway, and no one intervened. It was just part of the collective noise.
Copper Ridge was the opposite. There, everyone knew you. Not just your name, but your business. People took care of each other. If something looked off—like a daughter breaking into her father’s home after a ten-year absence—someone called the police. Concern, community, maybe a bit of gossip, were all part of the charm.
