"Like I said, I've had years to think about it." I set my guitar down, lean back.
Dom is quiet for a long moment, absorbing this.
"Your mother told me once when we were young,” he says finally, "that loving someone means trusting them to make their own choices. Even when those choices scare you. Even when you think you know better."
I stay quiet and let him finish.
"I didn't listen." He sets the guitar aside. "I was so convinced that staying away was the right thing even after all these years—the only thing."
"I think you did what you thought was right at the time," I saycarefully. "Just like I did. Just like anyone does when they love someone and they're scared of losing them."
Dom puts a hand on my shoulder, and this time the gesture feels earned.
"You're wise beyond your years," he says.
"I've made enough mistakes to learn from." I meet his eyes.
"So have I."
"You went to prison for six years," I say. "On charges Scott planted. That's not exactly taking the easy way out."
"But after?" He shakes his head. "After I got out, I could have tried. Could have reached out. Could have fought to know you. Instead I convinced myself you were better off without me."
"Maybe I was," I say. Not cruel. Just honest. "Maybe you showing up when I was a kid, trying to save us would have made things worse."
"Or maybe I could have gotten you and your mom out sooner."
"Maybe. Or maybe we'd all be dead." I set my guitar down. "We can play the 'what if' game forever. Doesn't change what actually happened."
We sit in comfortable silence, and I realize this is what having a father could have felt like.
Should have felt like.
Just two people who understand each other without needing to explain everything.
"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Dom asks eventually.
"Got some work to do on a house."
His eyebrows raise. “A house?”
"I've been working on it for about three years now."
"Need a hand?" He gestures to his work boots. "I'm pretty good with a hammer. Spent some time in construction when the whole full-time musician thing didn't work out."
I consider it.
Consider whether I'm ready to show him this—the house I built for a future I'm not sure exists yet.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. “I’d like that.”
The drive outto Westbrook Lane is quiet. Dom doesn't try to fill the silence with small talk, just looks out the window at the town he left behind decades ago.
When we pull up to the house, he lets out a low whistle.
"Jesus Christ. You built this?"
"Most of it. I had help with the foundation and the framing. But everything else..." I gesture to the structure. "That's me."
