— he whispered.
— “You’re never home,” Paulie continued, tears streaming down his face. “You’re always working. You look at me like I’m a chore. But Grandma Ellie… she made me pancakes. She sat with me. She was actually there.”
Paulie turned and walked toward the door. He stopped at the threshold without looking back.
— “I don’t like it here,” he said quietly, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Andrew sat on the bed, staring at the closed door. His hands were shaking. Something inside him had cracked—the wall he’d spent decades building was crumbling.
Andrew didn’t sleep that night. He lay in bed, listening to the clock. Every tick was a reminder. He saw himself as a boy, sitting by the window in the group home. “Maybe Mom will come today?” he’d thought. “Maybe she’s better? Maybe she loves me?”
But she never came.
Andrew got up and walked to the dresser. He opened the top drawer and pulled out the photo of Paulie. The boy was smiling, but his eyes looked empty. Just like Andrew’s had. He looked at the photo and finally saw himself. The little boy waiting by the window. He’d vowed never to be weak, but he’d become exactly like her. Instead of alcohol, he used money and power to numb the world. He’d abandoned his son just as surely as she’d abandoned him.
He put the photo back and closed the drawer. He went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, staring out at the city. By dawn, he’d made a decision. He picked up his phone and called a private investigator he used for business background checks.
— “I need a full report,” Andrew said. “Eleanor Miller. Small town in the mountains. I want to know everything she’s done for the last fifteen years.”
He hung up and watched the sunrise. He didn’t know why he was doing it. He didn’t know what he’d say. But he knew he had to go back. To understand. To see if there was anything left to save.
The knock on the door was sharp and firm. Eleanor jumped, dropping her spoon into the pot of stew. She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door. Andrew was standing there. Alone. No security, no Paulie. He was wearing a simple dark jacket and jeans. He looked exhausted.
— “Andy?” Eleanor gasped, clutching the doorframe.
— “We need to talk,” he said curtly, still not meeting her eyes.
Eleanor nodded and stepped aside. Andrew walked in and looked around. The cabin was the same: clean, modest, smelling of herbs and woodsmoke. A pot of stew was simmering on the stove.
— “Sit down,” Eleanor offered softly, gesturing to the table.
Andrew sat. Eleanor sat across from him. A heavy, thick silence settled between them. Outside, a crow called from a pine branch. Andrew pulled an envelope from his pocket and set it on the table. It was thick with cash.
— “Take it,” he said, looking down. “It’s for the house. For whatever you need.”
Eleanor looked at the envelope, then at her son. She slowly pushed it back toward him.
— “I don’t want your money, Andy,” she said quietly. “I just need to know you’re okay. That you’re happy. And that… that maybe you can find it in you to forgive me.”
Andrew snapped his head up. His eyes flashed with anger.
— “Forgive you?” his voice was like a whip. “For what? For choosing a bottle over your own son? For leaving a seven-year-old to fend for himself?”
He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping the floor. He paced the small room, his jaw tight.
— “Do you have any idea what that does to a kid?” he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “To lie in bed every night wondering what you did wrong to make your mother hate you that much?”
Eleanor covered her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
— “I’m not making excuses, Andy,” she choked out. “I was a broken woman. I destroyed everything. But I changed. I’ve spent fifteen years in this cabin, sober, working, praying. I am not the woman who left you.”
Andrew stopped by the window, staring out at the road. His knuckles were white. Inside him, a war was raging: thirty years of hatred against a sudden, desperate longing for the mother he used to have.
— “I need time,” he said finally, turning toward the door.
Eleanor stood up, reaching out.
— “Andy, wait.”
— “No,” he said, not looking back. “Not now.”
He walked out, the door clicking shut. Eleanor stood in the center of the room, hugging herself, staring at the wood grain of the door.
Andrew walked through the small town on foot. His driver followed slowly in the Cadillac, keeping a respectful distance. The road was dusty, and the autumn air smelled of pine and woodsmoke. He didn’t know where he was going. He just needed to move.
— “Excuse me, sir!” a woman’s voice called out.
Andrew turned. An older woman in a thick cardigan was walking toward him, carrying a basket of eggs. She had a kind, weathered face.
— “You’re Eleanor Miller’s boy, aren’t you?”
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