Something inside me loosens just a fraction. It's enough to hurt.
He states, "I never wanted to scare you. I never wanted to be someone you were afraid of."
I let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Trying to kill the man I love is a funny way of showing that."
He agrees immediately. "Yes. And I hate that I put you through that."
"And Red?"
He arches his eyebrows.
"You hate that you put Red through that, too, Dad. Correct?" I ask.
He clears his throat. "Yes."
I take another sip of the latte.
He leans forward, hands clasped. "I've spent my life believing love meant protection. Force, if necessary. I see now that what I was really doing was protecting myself from fear. Fear of losing you and of not understanding you."
My throat tightens.
He adds, "I can't change what I did, but I can change what I do next."
I study his face. The familiar sharp lines. The eyes that have always loved me now search for answers instead of demanding them.
I ask, "What does that look like? The future?"
A moment passes. Then he answers, "It looks like listening. It looks like respecting your boundaries even when they scare me. It looks like trusting that you are capable of choosing the right person for yourself."
My pulse stutters. I quietly ask, "And Red?"
His jaw flexes. "Red loves you. That much is clear. And he makes you steadier. I can see it."
I swallow hard.
He looks at the ceiling for a moment, gathers his emotions, then pins glassy eyes on me. "I won't pretend I understand everything. But I accept him and the fact that you chose him."
The words land gently with gravity. Still, I stay silent.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking for a chance to do better," he says.
I stare down at the coffee, imagining the lid is off and I can see the faint swirl of foam settle.
A week ago, this would've shattered me, sending my thoughts spinning, my chest caving, and my skin itching with too many feelings at once. Now, it still hurts. But it doesn't break me.
I carefully choose my words. "I need consistency, not promises or grand gestures."
He nods. "You'll have it."
I peer closer at him. "And if you ever try to control my life again, you lose me. No more warnings."
He flinches. "Understood."
I take a sip of the coffee. Then I softly add, "I'm not fixed. I'm working on my mental health, but healing isn't linear. Some days are harder than others."
"Then tell me so I can help you. That's all your mom and I want...to be able to help you so you aren't struggling and in pain on your own." His eyes tear. He looks away and grinds his molars, blinking hard.
The silence that follows is different than the ones we've shared before. It's real in a way I've always wanted but was scared to imagine.
