“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Tomorrow. I’ll try to understand what he needs. Maybe money. Maybe help. Maybe he just needs to hear me say I’m sorry.”
Susan shook her head. “What he needs is time and some peace. Don’t push him, Victor. He’s hanging by a thread already.”
“All right. I won’t push. But he needs to know I’m sorry. That I’m willing to do whatever I can to make some kind of amends.” We sat in that kitchen until dawn.
Drinking tea and talking. Susan told me how Mike would break down at night, how he said he hated himself for not being able to hate me cleanly. How afraid he was that Katie would find out and leave him.
How badly he wanted to put the past behind him and couldn’t. I understood then: that young man was suffering every bit as much as I was, maybe more, because he hadn’t done anything wrong. I had. When the sun started coming up, Susan said one thing very clearly.
“Promise me this. Whatever you decide to do, talk to me first. Don’t do anything rash. This family is fragile right now. One wrong move and everything comes apart.”
I promised. And I kept that promise. The next day I didn’t corner Mike. Didn’t force a conversation. I just lived the day.
Read the paper. Watched the news. Helped Susan with lunch. Acted like everything was normal, while inside I kept turning over the same question.
How do you make amends for something that can’t be undone? How do you carry guilt that big and still sit at the dinner table every night? The next morning Katie called early.
She said she’d be home that evening around seven. Her voice sounded tired but cheerful. I listened and thought: she’s going to walk in, hug me, hug Mike.
She’ll tell us about her trip. Laugh. And the three of us will sit there pretending everything is fine. That’s a lie, isn’t it?
But what choice did we have? I spent the whole day on edge. Susan baked Katie’s favorite apple pie and hummed in the kitchen.
Mike came out for lunch looking pale but steady. We ate in silence. He went back to his room. I sat in the living room watching the clock. One, two, three. Time dragged.
At 5:30 I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knocked on Mike’s door. He opened it and looked at me. “Can we talk?” I asked. He nodded and stepped back.
I went in and shut the door. We stood there in the middle of the room looking at each other. Finally I said, “Katie’s coming home soon. We need to decide how we’re going to handle this.”
“Like we always do,” he said quietly. “We act normal.” “But it’s not normal anymore. I know who you are.”
“You know that I know. Susan knows. We’re all tied together by this now.”
“Katie doesn’t know,” he said. “And I don’t want her paying for your mistake from 28 years ago.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his head.
“I don’t want that either. That’s why I’ve kept my mouth shut. Why I stay here. Why I sit across from you every day and try not to come apart.”
“What do you need to make it easier?” I asked, pulling the desk chair over and sitting down. “Money? I can sell the cabin. Sell whatever I have. I’ll give you everything.”
He looked up at me, startled. “Money? You think money gives me my father back?”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t give you back your childhood. Or your mother. But it’s something.”
“Compensation?” he said. “I don’t want compensation.” “Maybe not. Maybe you want time. Or maybe you want me to confess.”
