“Live long, love hard, and take care of each other!”
That evening, the newlyweds left, and Vic sat with his mother in the kitchen.
“You’re a good father, Vic,” she said. “Now live for yourself.”
He gave a small, bright smile:
“I am, Mom. I am.”
August 2002. Vic sat in the yard under an oak tree. Nearby, in a stroller, his grandson Mike was sleeping peacefully.
He was fifty-five. His hair was completely white, his hands covered in old scars. But he was alive and he was needed.
Ellie and Mark were happy with a quiet family life. The nightmares had almost completely vanished. Ellie never spoke of those four men, intuitively understanding that her father had settled it forever.
Their lives were broken. Peterson worked as a night watchman. Tony Fox was scraping by with odd jobs in the city. Ryan Brooks was slowly fading away in prison. Oliver and Gerald Sterling were buried in the local cemetery.
Vic had finally stepped away from the life. He’d laid down all his old debts and chosen his family.
Mike woke up in the stroller. Vic carefully lifted him up. The baby settled down, tucking his nose into his grandfather’s shoulder.
“You’ll be strong, you’ll be honest,” Vic whispered. “Not like your granddad. You’ll grow up clean.”
In the distance, a door slammed. Ellie was walking across the yard, smiling.
“Dad, thanks for watching him. Stay for dinner, Mark’s grilling steaks.”
“I’ll stay.”
They walked toward the house together. A normal summer evening. A normal, finally happy family.
