Today my son is five years old. Nick is bright, funny, full of questions. Light hair like Susan’s, serious eyes like mine.
He doesn’t know what his father did. I hope he never does. I still work at the same shop, only now I’m a floor supervisor.
Good pay. We’re doing all right. Bought a two-bedroom condo in town. Fixing it up a little at a time. Talking about a second child.
Ordinary family. Work, home, kids. Nothing unusual. But sometimes, when everybody’s asleep, I step out onto the balcony, smoke, look at the city lights, and remember.
That June evening when I came home and found my mother on the floor. The wrecked house, the broken fingers, the fear in her eyes. I remember the dark lot, Luke broken and crying.
The car wash, Steve choking on oil and blood. The basement, Wade gasping and dying among the things he’d stolen. I don’t cry anymore. I don’t unravel.
I just remember. It’s part of me. Dark and ugly, but mine.
Susan comes out onto the balcony and puts her arms around me from behind. “What are you thinking about?” “The past.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just leans against me. She knows which past I mean, and she doesn’t judge. She just holds on. “Don’t stay there too long. It was a long time ago.”
“You’re not that same man anymore.” I smile a little. “Maybe not.”
“But what I did didn’t disappear. It’ll always be with me.” “Yes,” she says. “But you didn’t let it destroy you.”
“You live. You work. You love us. You’re raising your son. That matters more.”
She’s right. I could have broken. Could’ve drunk myself to death, lost my mind, put a gun in my mouth. Plenty of men fall apart over less. I chose to live.
Hard as it was, I chose it. Mom comes every Sunday. We eat lunch together, take Nick to the park…
