— she asked, stopping in front of him.
Andrew nodded, unsure of what to say.
— “I’m Martha,” she said. “I live just down the road. You’re from the city, I take it?”
— “Chicago,” Andrew replied shortly.
Martha looked at him thoughtfully, then sighed.
— “She’s had a hard road, your mother,” she said, shaking her head. “I remember when she moved here fifteen years ago. She looked like a ghost. I didn’t think she’d make it. But she worked harder than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Andrew remained silent, listening.
— “Ellie’s a good soul,” Martha continued. “Fifteen years sober. She helps everyone. She brings soup to the sick, she helps the elderly with their gardens. She prays for you, you know? Every single day. She used to tell me, ‘Maybe my boy is out there somewhere. I hope he’s safe.'”
Andrew swallowed hard.
— “I don’t know what happened between you,” Martha said gently, looking him in the eye. “But she’s paid her dues. Believe me. Every day she’s lived here has been an act of penance.”
She nodded to him and walked on, leaving Andrew in the middle of the road. He stood there, watching her go, feeling the ice inside him start to crack. It wasn’t gone, but it was fracturing. Andrew turned and walked back to the car. He got in and shut the door.
— “Take me home,” he said hoarsely.
As they drove away, Andrew looked out the window at the cabin. He saw the thin trail of smoke from the chimney. He saw the old rowan tree by the porch. He saw a life built on regret and a desperate hope for redemption.
That night in Chicago, Andrew sat in his dark living room. The phone rang, breaking the silence. It was Paulie.
— “Dad?” the boy’s voice was small.
— “Yeah, champ,” Andrew answered, his voice softening.
— “Did you see Grandma?”
Andrew closed his eyes.
— “I did.”
— “Tell her I miss her,” Paulie whispered. “Tell her I didn’t forget.”
Andrew gripped the phone tighter.
— “I will,” he said.
Paulie was quiet for a moment, then added:
— “Dad, don’t be mad at her. She’s nice.”
— “Goodnight, son,” Andrew said and hung up.
He sat in the dark, the phone heavy in his hand. Outside, the wind whipped off the lake. Andrew covered his face with his hands and, for the first time in thirty years, he felt the anger start to drain away. It was terrifying. Hatred had been his fuel for so long. Without it, he didn’t know who he was. But he knew he couldn’t keep living this way.
The phone rang in the middle of the night. Andrew bolted upright and grabbed it. It was the nanny.
— “Andrew! It’s Paulie!” her voice was panicked. “He has a fever of 104. I can’t get it down. He’s barely conscious. We’re heading to Northwestern Memorial!”
Andrew was at the hospital in ten minutes. The city was a blur of streetlights and empty intersections. His heart was racing. In the ER, the smell of antiseptic was overwhelming. Doctors whisked Paulie away on a gurney—he looked so small, so pale.
Andrew tried to follow, but a nurse stopped him.
— “Wait here, Mr. Miller. We’ll come get you.”
Andrew sat on a hard plastic chair, his head in his hands. The silence of the waiting room was deafening. Every minute felt like an hour. He stared at the double doors, waiting for them to open.
A doctor emerged an hour later, looking tired.
— “Pneumonia,” he said. “It’s severe. We’re doing everything we can, but he’s in critical condition.”
Andrew grabbed the doctor’s arm.
— “Is he going to make it?”
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