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Adrenaline. Dread. Terror. I felt no excitement or joy. I was actually a little scared. Not scared that he would hurt me physically, but that he would somehow hurt me more emotionally…if that was even possible at this point. “I’ll be right there.”
When I entered the parlor, I found my father standing in front of the fire, one hand in his pocket, his eyes on the flames inside the hearth like he was mesmerized by their movements. He was still, his back slightly bent because his posture had stooped in recent years. His old watch was still on his right wrist.
I stood there and took him in, my mind unable to believe the truth that my eyes screamed. He was really there, in the flesh, and he didn’t seem to have paperwork for me to sign or a lawyer to bear witness.
If he’d come all the way here and stepped into my house, he must have something important to say. “Hey, Dad.”
The sound of my voice made him whip his head around from the fireplace and look at me. His blue eyes widened in surprise at my appearance, but then they slowly turned guarded with discomfort, like being in the room with me was inherently awkward.
I moved to the armchair and took a seat, while he continued to stand. My elbow propped on the armrest, and my fingertips rested against my lips. My eyes took in the sight of him by the fireplace, but it was still hard to grapple with reality. It was really him, not a ghost. “Take a seat.”
He looked at the armchair across from me and, after a moment of silent deliberation, sat down. He looked at me across the table, eyes on mine for the first time. Normally, he avoided my stare, focused on paperwork in front of him or hiding behind sunglasses. But now, he actually looked at me.
I was desperate for a cigar, something to coat my tongue to make this tension more tolerable, but I would never light up in front of my father, someone who didn’t smoke. A decanter of scotch was sitting there, but I didn’t pour a glass or offer him one.
The silence continued, the crackling from the fireplace the only sound in the quiet room.
He was the one who’d come to me, so I decided to let him speak first—in case I shoved my foot in my mouth.
He gave a sigh, the same sigh I remembered from my childhood, and brought his hands together in his lap. “The man who shot me in the arm…he came by the house. Told your mother and me that he’d threatened to kill us both if you didn’t stay away from his daughter…the woman you are now married to. You ended things with her to keep us alive, even though you were in love with her. We disowned you…but you continued to protect us.”
I felt my breath give me away. I sucked in a deep breath I didn’t know I needed until it happened.
“He took responsibility for everything and asked that we not blame you for his actions. His daughter no longer speaks to himbecause of the things he’s done…and he doesn’t want that to happen to us.”
I had no idea what Dante could have possibly said to make my father listen, not after shooting him in the arm, but he somehow pulled a rabbit out of a hat like the best showman.
“He also said you’re innocent of the crimes you were accused of…and showed us proof.”
“What proof?” I blurted.
“Surveillance footage of her infidelity before the marriage ended, bank statements detailing her erratic spending, emails to your lawyer about getting the prenup changed and forging your signature. He pieced everything together and wove a story, that my son gave his heart to the wrong woman and she burned him to the ground. What’s more…he said you left your previous career to settle down.”
All I could do was sit there with a hard stare, unable to believe that my father had just said all that. It’d been a long time since we’d had a conversation like this—years ago, before I went to prison. After I was incarcerated, we didn’t speak for two years because they never came to visit.
My father stared at the coffee table for a while. “I want to apologize…but I’m not sure it’ll do much good.”
“I don’t want an apology.”
He looked up to meet my stare, guarded once more.
“I just want my dad.” I felt no resentment toward him or Mom. They’d turned their backs on me when they should have been by my side through the entire ordeal, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about all the horrible things they’d said to me. My father wasthere, sitting across from me, and not looking at me with shame. I was grateful that this reunion had happened at all, that my dad hadn’t collapsed from a heart attack and I’d had to live with that regret. He was there with me. We had a second chance.
My dad closed his eyes briefly, like that somehow made him feel worse. “Alexander…” He didn’t say anything else, as if saying more than just my name would be too much.
I left my chair and came around the coffee table. His eyes were still downcast as I reached my hand out for him to grab. “Get your ass up and hug me, old man.”
A slight smirk spread over his mouth before he looked up at me. “How can you just let this go? After everything that’s happened. After everything we said and did. How can it be this easy?”
I kept my hand there. “I held a grudge against someone I loved before, and I won’t make that mistake again.”
His stare washed over my face before he took my hand and let me pull him up. He was a few inches shorter than me, life compressing his spine, but his features still reminded me of my own. He grabbed me by the shoulder and looked me over, just the way he used to when I’d finished a game or completed a performance with the orchestra. Pride swept through him before he pulled me in for an embrace, a squeeze he hadn’t given me in so long I’d forgotten how it felt to be hugged by my own father.
Peace like I’d never known swept through me. The stress of the estrangement, of their disappointment, all the rage I’d felt toward the woman who’d locked me up and thrown away the key…it all disappeared.
“I love you, son.”
My breath caught in my throat, and my eyes closed. He used to say it every time we got off the phone, said it so often that it sounded automatic. But once I was put on trial, he’d never said it again—not in person, not over the phone. He said it now, and it sounded just the way it used to. “I love you, Dad.”
