SCOTT
After the talent show, my wife, and my son Jackson went straight home. As I sat on the couch waiting for Miles to be home, I couldn't help but think about what had happened earlier. It wasn't my first time seeing him play the piano, but it was indeed my first time hearing him sing.
 
On the drive home, my wife and I couldn't stop talking about how incredible Miles' performance was. We marveled at his growth and the way he had captivated everyone in the room. We were eager to share our joy with him and let him know just how impressed we were.
 
As soon as we arrived home, I settled down on our living room couch, eagerly awaiting Miles' return. The warmth of the house embraced me as I sat there, lost in thought. I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by emotions, with pride and love for my son bubbling up inside me.
 
Suddenly, memories flooded my mind, transporting me back to a time when our family used to play at the subway station.
 
A wide grin spread across my face as I reminisced about our impromptu performances. Our family, a band composed of mismatched instruments, played passionately, igniting the spirits of everyone who passed by. The harmonies we created became a part of the city's heartbeat.
 
Miles, my youngest son, was the shining star of our subway symphony. With his tousled hair and a guitar strapped across his chest, he exuded an infectious energy. But it was his piano skills that left everyone mesmerized. Miles possessed a rare talent—one that touched the souls of those who listened.
 
Every evening, our station became a stage, and the subway walls transformed into a grand concert hall. The resonance of the piano keys danced through the air, accompanied by the gentle strumming of my guitar. We played with an unwavering passion that transcended the chaos surrounding us.
 
The commuters would pause in their hurried steps, captivated by the harmonious melodies that floated through the air. Their faces lit up with smiles as if reminded of forgotten dreams and long-lost aspirations. The music united strangers in a temporary escape from the monotony of their lives.
 
As the last notes of our performance echoed, applause erupted from the crowd. People would dig into their pockets, offering tokens of gratitude and appreciation. Their generous donations, however small, helped sustain our humble existence.
 
But it was more than just busking for us; it was a celebration of the bond we shared as a family. The moments on that subway platform brought us closer together, reminding us of the magic we carried within ourselves. Our music became the language through which we connected, expressing emotions that words alone could not convey.
 
I sighed as I stood up and made my way to the kitchen. I rubbed my eyes and stretched, feeling the weight of another year settle on my shoulders. As I entered the kitchen, the warm aroma of vanilla and butter enveloped me, instantly lifting my spirits.
 
There, at the countertop, stood my wife, Jocelyn, donning a tired but loving smile. Her gentle eyes sparkled with fatigue, telling a tale of late nights and secret preparations. Clad in a cozy sweater and flour-dusted apron, she looked like an angel amidst the chaos of ingredients.
"You should go to sleep, honey," I said softly, my voice filled with exhaustion and concern. I couldn't help but hover closer to her, gently placing my hand above hers. The dim light of the lamp revealed the weariness etched on her face, but she still managed a faint smile. As her eyes met mine, I noticed a scar on the corner of her forehead, barely visible beneath her tousled hair. Just looking at it made my heart ache with unbearable guilt.
 
"Just give me a hug, and I'll be fine, honey," she said, her voice revealing a familiar vulnerability. I nodded my head in response, understanding the unspoken weight of her words. Sending a cascade of warmth through my body, I embraced her in a tight, comforting hug.
 
It had been a while since we had shared such intimate moments, lost as we were in the fast-paced chaos of life. Yet, as we stood there, locked in each other's arms, the world faded away, leaving only the two of us to exist in the precious present.
 
As I held her close, I realized just how much I had missed this connection. It felt like rediscovering a long-lost treasure, one that we had kept hidden for far too long. The familiar scent of her hair and the rhythmic rise and fall of our breaths melded together, forging a renewed bond. In that moment, time slowed, and the whispers of our hearts danced in harmony.
 
"I'm sorry, honey," I said to her softly, my voice laced with sincerity and vulnerability. "I promise I'm going to do all I can to be better, not just your husband but also the father our children needed."
 
Jocelyn's grip on me tightened, her embrace filled with both forgiveness and hope. Her voice quivered as she replied, "I know you can, Scott."
 
Those words echoed in my mind as I embarked on a journey of rebuilding trust and rekindling the love that had brought us together. I sought therapy to confront my unresolved issues.
Suddenly, the telephone rang, jolting us out of our reverie. Startled, Jocelyn let go of the hug and quickly approached the phone. The shrill ring reverberated through the room, causing both of us to exchange puzzled glances.
 
"It's probably the robocalls again, hello?" she said with a hint of frustration as she answered the phone. The incessant barrage of unwanted calls had become a daily annoyance in her life. However, this call turned out to be quite different from the usual telemarketing pitches.
 
I shrugged and grinned as I opened the fridge, relishing the thought of a refreshing beer after a long day. I took one bottle in hand, and the condensation cooled against my palm. But just as I was about to twist off the cap, a familiar voice called out my name.
 
"Scott, honey." Jocelyn's voice drifted through the kitchen, stopping me in my tracks. I turned to face her, my curiosity piqued by the slight urgency in her tone.
 
"What is it, honey?" I asked her, concerning etching lines across my forehead. She looked worried and concerned at the same time, her eyes darting back and forth, making me increasingly anxious.
 
It took her almost a minute, but with a sigh, she managed to speak again. "It's your dad," she said. My eyebrows furrowed in curiosity, and the uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. My relationship with my father had always been complicated, but my wife's tone suggested something out of the ordinary.
 
As she hesitated, trying to muster the right words, I noticed tears beginning to well up in her eyes. My heart sank, fearing the worst. "What about him?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Why did he call us? How'd he get our number? What does he want?" I continued my voice tinged with frustration.
 
"He's gone," she finally choked out, her voice trembling leaving me speechless.
"Grandpa's gone?" A familiar voice asked. Jocelyn and I both turned our gazes into the kitchen foyer, and there stood Miles, who was still in his black suit. His eyes were filled with worry, and his tone was laced with disbelief.
 
"Mom?" Miles asked once more, his voice tinged with sadness and melancholia. "Answer me, is Grandpa dead?"
 
Jocelyn brushed a stray strand of hair from her face and cupped Miles' cheeks to meet his eyes. "I'm so sorry, sweetie," Jocelyn whispered before giving Miles a tight and warm hug.
As I watched Jocelyn embrace Miles, confusion washed over me. How did Miles know about their grandfather? I had kept that part of our family history tightly guarded, never wanting to burden them with the painful truth. At that moment, I felt betrayed yet curious to unravel the mystery.
"What's going on? Why is Miles crying?" Jackson asked the moment he got behind him.
 
"Grandpa's gone, Jackson, he's gone..." Miles managed to say, his voice heavy with grief.
 
"Jackson, can you take Miles upstairs for me, please? I need to speak with your mother alone." Jackson nodded in response, then took Miles upstairs.
 
Jocelyn was still in shock, and sadness still lingered in her eyes. "I'm going to need some wine," she muttered, the words escaping her lips with a mix of determination and vulnerability. With a wavering hand, she reached for a wine glass resting on the kitchen counter, its delicate crystal reflecting the dim light of the room. Jocelyn poured a generous amount, the crimson liquid splashing against the glass and swirling within its confines.
"Jocelyn, honey," I began, "how did our children know about Dad? Tell me." I begged, and she nodded before taking a sip of her drink. Taking a deep breath, Jocelyn set down her glass and looked into my eyes. Holding a glass of wine, she took a deep breath and began speaking in a tone filled with regret.
 
"The day we got married, I sent your father an invitation without your consent," she confessed, her eyes brimming with both guilt and vulnerability. "I know it was a terrible idea, and I know you wouldn't like it, but I still did it anyway because I thought it was the right thing to do."
 
I furrowed my brow, perplexed by her admission. "Why would you do something like that?" I asked, my voice tinged with a mix of confusion and concern.
 
Jocelyn's hands trembled slightly as she placed the wine glass on the kitchen counter. She took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts before continuing. "I knew how much your relationship with your father meant to you, even despite the strained connection you two had over the years," she explained, her voice soft yet resolute. "I wanted to give you the chance to rebuild that bond and create new memories together."
 
A wave of mixed emotions washed over me, mingling with the joy and apprehension filling the air on our wedding day. It was true that my relationship with my father had been fractured, with distance and unresolved issues wedging a deep divide between us. Yet I had never considered reaching out to him, believing it was too late for reconciliation.
 
Jocelyn reached out and took my hand, her touch providing a comforting anchor amidst the whirlwind of emotions. "I understand if you're angry with me," she said, her eyes filled with sincerity. "But I want you to know that everything I did was out of love and a genuine desire for your happiness."
 
As I contemplated her words, I realized the magnitude of her gesture. Taking a leap of faith, Jocelyn reached out to my father, offering him an opportunity to be a part of our special day. She had done something I had never mustered the courage to do.
 
At that moment, I felt a renewed sense of gratitude and admiration for the woman standing before me. Jocelyn's actions spoke volumes about her unwavering love and dedication, not just to me but to the life we were building together.
 
With a mix of apprehension and curiosity, I reluctantly asked, "What did my father say?"
 
"I wasn't sure about what he said, but he did come, you know," she said mischievously, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "He was there, standing from afar, watching us get married, but then left early."
 
With a playful grin, Jocelyn paused, relishing the suspense she had created. "Do you remember that wedding gift we received? The guitar and the keyboard?"
 
The image of the beautiful musical instruments instantly rekindled a vivid memory in my mind. "Yes, of course! They were stunning. We still play them, even to this day," I replied, a fondness evident in my voice.
 
Jocelyn's eyes gleamed mischievously as she continued, "Well, he said it was the dumbest wedding gift he had ever given. He even added that his gift was more like a Christmas gift than a wedding gift, you know?"
 
Amused, I reached for the wine bottle and topped up our glasses. As the fragrant aroma filled the air, I couldn't help but reminisce about the whimsical nature of our wedding day. It was a day brimming with love, laughter, and surprises.
"But he told me that with his gift, he can assure me that we'll be happy together since we both love music so much," she murmured. "And he wasn't wrong, though."
 
I nodded, contemplating the truth in her words. Our shared love for music had been a wondrous tapestry, but it could not compensate for the absence of true connection. The promises of eternal bliss I had clung to had been nothing more than misguided hope, a desperate plea to salvage what once was.
 
"And when I gave birth to Jackson, I sent him letters and pictures almost every week, just so he could see him," she continued the weight of the past heavy on her shoulders. "He even told me that Jackson just looked exactly like you, and again, he wasn't wrong." She smiled.
 
"Then, for the second time, I gave birth to Miles," she said, her voice steady and resolute. "He was a beautiful child, full of life and vigor. But the thing that made your father happy was that Miles didn't have blonde hair and blue eyes like you guys had, you know."
 
Her words hung heavy in the air, a silent challenge to anyone who dared question her decision. Jocelyn's gaze hardened as she continued, her eyes settling on a faded photograph on the wall—a reminder of the life that was, the life she fought to protect.
 
"Miles grew up, and when he reached his fourth grade, every Thursday and Friday morning, I'd drive our children to school," Jocelyn recounted, her voice laced with nostalgia. "I wanted them to have the normalcy that every child deserves. They deserved a chance to be happy without the shadow of their lineage constantly looming over them."
 
She paused before she breathed out a heavy sigh. The weight of the secrets she had carried for so long seemed to lighten as she spoke her truth, finally unburdening her soul.
 
"By the end of the day, your father would pick them up from school," Jocelyn revealed, a glimmer of defiance in her eyes. "He'd bring them home to me in secret, hidden away from prying eyes. He didn't want you to know, because if you did, you would've told him to stay away from our children."
 
A smirk tugged at Jocelyn's lips as she recited those words. "And then the biggest challenge came into our lives," Jocelyn began, her voice quivering slightly. "When he knew about Miles, I thought he would be mad, or worse, he'd do something to Miles. But he didn't; he was there for Miles, honey." Jocelyn took a deep breath, trying to gather all her courage and thoughts before speaking again. The memories of that fateful day resurfaced, filling her eyes with tears.
"Miles used to cut himself up, Scott," Jocelyn said, her voice trembling with a mix of pain and sadness. "He even attempted to take his own life because he could not bear all the struggles he endured. He needed his father; he needed you, but you betrayed him, giving him trauma he didn't deserve."
 
My eyes widened, shock and concern washing over my face. The weight of my past mistakes crashed upon me, making it difficult to find the words to respond. Memories of my tumultuous relationship with my father resurfaced, fueling my feelings of guilt and regret.
 
"But your father was there," Jocelyn continued, her voice filled with conviction. "He stopped Miles from doing all that stuff, and it worked. He loved Miles, and he loved his grandchildren more than you know."
 
My gaze fell to the table, my fists clenching and unclenching as I struggled with conflicting emotions. I had always known my father was not a good parent, but the idea that he had managed to be a positive influence on my children seemed unimaginable.
 
"You promised me, Jocelyn," I finally whispered, my voice barely audible.
 
She nodded, her eyes fixed on my pained expression. "I know I betrayed you, Scott. I know that," she admitted, her voice filled with remorse. "But your father? I know he wasn't a good father to you, but he was a good grandfather to our children, Scott."
 
I couldn't help myself, so I took the wine bottle and drank the whole bottle. The bitter liquid burned as it slid down my throat, numbing my senses and offering a temporary escape from the overwhelming turmoil that strained my heart. Every sip intensified the conflicting emotions within me.
 
Jocelyn, my wife, stood in front of me, her eyes filled with concern and compassion. "I'm sorry, honey," she said softly, gently tipping the wine away from my grip.
 
As the wine bottle slipped from my hand, a mixture of relief and guilt washed over me. I felt betrayed by my weakness and lack of control, yet somehow, a sense of liberation also embraced me. Not for myself, but for my children.
 
"No, I'm sorry; I'm so sorry," I said to her, my voice choked with remorse. "I'm sorry; I was a terrible father and a terrible husband. I'm so sorry," I added, my voice breaking as I dived into her embrace. She held me tightly, her arms wrapping around me, offering a comfort I didn't deserve.
...
After Jocelyn and I had our heart-wrenching conversation about what happened, I knew it was time to face my flesh and blood. My son, Miles, had been through as much as anyone in the situation, and yet, it had been years since we had a proper conversation. The weight of guilt pressed heavily on my shoulders as I stood nervously in front of his door, unsure of how to begin.
 
It had been a turbulent period in our lives, one filled with misunderstandings and broken trust. The incident that tore our family apart was still fresh in our minds. I had made a terrible mistake that had caused pain to those I loved most. But now I wanted to make amends, even if it meant confronting my guilt head-on.
 
"What are you still doing there? You should get in, Dad, and talk to him," I heard Jackson say, who was standing right at his room's door.
 
I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair, my mind racing as I tried to come up with an excuse to delay the inevitable. The truth is, I was nervous. Nervous to face what lay on the other side of that door.
 
Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob and eased open the door. The hinges creaked, the sound resonating like a discordant note in the tense atmosphere. Stepping inside, I found myself surrounded by an amalgamation of Marvel posters and discarded books.
Miles was lying on his bed, facing the window. The pale light of the moon cascaded over his face, casting shadows, and mirroring the turmoil in his mind. My heart pounded wildly in my chest as I took a hesitant step into the room. Every creak, every shuffle of my feet felt like a drum roll to the unknown.
I approached his bed cautiously, my footsteps careful and deliberate. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the soft sighs that escaped Miles' lips. The weight of my concern pressed heavily on my chest, but I fought against it, vowing not to let it show.
Gently, I sat on the edge of his bed, trying not to disturb him. His breathing remained steady, his back rising and falling rhythmically. Leaning in closer, I studied his face, searching for some clue, any sign of what he was going through.
I took a deep breath, the weight of my remorse threatening to crush me. The room fell silent; the only sound was the steady rhythm of my pounding heart. I had rehearsed this conversation countless times, but now, with my son in front of me, I struggled to find the right words.
 
"I'm sorry, son," I finally began, my voice shaky, trying not to sound as awkward as possible. "I may have been a terrible father to you, but your grandpa wasn't, so I'm sorry, son, I'm sorry."
 
"He was not just a grandfather to me, Dad; he was more like a father to me and Jackson," Miles stammered, his voice trembling with emotion. "And it hurts me that the only person I trusted the most and who loved me for who I am is now gone from my life."
 
I gazed at my son, my heart heavy with sympathy, knowing just how deeply Miles revered his grandfather.
"I know, son, that's why I'm here now," I said, gently tapping him on the shoulder. "But feeling this way doesn't mean you should give up on everything."
 
Miles turned to face me, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness. "I wish I could just be gone and be with Grandpa," he said, his voice trembling. "I hate this world; I don't belong here."
 
My heart sank at his words, unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of his pain. I knew that my father's sudden passing had impacted Miles deeply, but I hadn't realized the extent of his anguish until now.
"Please, son," I began, my voice pleading, "don't say such nonsense; a lot of people care about you, your mom, Jackson, the cop's daughter, your friend Charlie, your boyfriend Tyler, and me, your dad."
 
Miles's brows furrowed with curiosity and anger. Perhaps I had touched a nerve, but I needed him to understand that he wasn't alone and that there were people who genuinely cared about him.
 
"You care about me?" he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "As if I believe that." He stood up, his agitated footsteps echoing through the room as he paced back and forth. Frustration was etched deeply into his features, his teary eyes glimmering with a mix of anger and pain. Finally, he turned to face me, his trembling finger pointed accusatorily in my direction.
 
"You dare call yourself my dad after all that you've done to me?" My son yelled, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain.
 
Trembling, Miles continued to vent his pent-up emotions. "You abused me! You hurt me! Do you have any idea what it's like to grow up in fear? To be constantly on edge, waiting for the next attack? Your child, living in constant terror of their parent! How could you do that to me?"
 
His words reverberated through the room, each one cutting deeper than the last. "Because of you, my life was hell! And thank you for giving me these shitty scars!" he seethed, his voice laced with contempt and anguish.
 
Then, before I knew it, he burst into tears, leaning his back against the cold window glass. His cry echoed through the room, filling the silence that had swallowed us whole. His vulnerability shattered the facade of strength I had carefully constructed, piercing my heart with guilt and sorrow. The door swung open, and I saw Jackson and Jocelyn come in.
"Because of you, my brother," Miles said before he could finish what he was about to say. Jackson cut him off, his protective instincts overriding his curiosity. "Miles, that's enough!"
 
"No, let him be," I told him. I turned to Miles, my heart breaking for him.
 
"I lost my dad a long time ago; I lost you the exact moment I needed you the most. I don't even recognize you anymore," Miles muttered, his voice choked with emotion as tears streamed down his face.
 
"Miles, son," I began, my voice shaky, "I know I've been a terrible father. I know I hurt you so much, and I won't apologize because I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, son."
 
Before I knew it, tears welled up in my eyes. My sadness and sorrow mirrored Miles'. It was as if the floodgates had been opened, letting years of suppressed emotions pour forth. I saw the pain etched on his face as he looked at me, and I knew he still carried the scars of my failures.
"But I want you to know that I'm doing all I can to be the father you once had. I wasn't there when things got out of hand, but here I am now. I know it's too late, but at least just let me try to make it up with you, son. I'm begging you." Miles shook his head, his gaze fixed on the floor as my words hung heavy in the air.
 
I watched as Miles stormed out of the room, his face twisted with anger and frustration. His abrupt exit left a heavy tension in the air, causing everyone in the room to exchange glances of concern and worry. Jackson hurriedly went after him and called out to Miles.
 
"Miles, stop! Where are you going?" Jackson's plea echoed through the house.
 
Jocelyn, sensing my unease, approached me with a comforting smile. Wrapping her arms around me, she gave me a tight hug, trying to ease my worries. "I'll talk to him, honey," she assured me softly.
 
As Jocelyn gracefully stepped out to follow Miles, her presence oozed a sense of calm and understanding. Her ability to connect with our children and diffuse tense situations made her the perfect choice to intervene.