EPILOGUE
ROBBIE
But it was hard.
So hard not to.
I never wanted to forget my dad.
But remembering hurts.
So, so much.
Shouldn’t I be used to this by now?
But still, the tears came.
Soft.
Slow.
Like heartbreak at a glacial pace.
I was grateful to Dad for teaching me one last lesson.
For giving me the gift of Ashton.
But I’d still give anything for one last hug, one last talk, one last chance to say I love you, Dad.
The smell of him on this fleece had faded, much like the memory of his voice.
I didn’t want to forget — but I didn’t want to remember what I had lost.
I missed him.
Especially now.
Not because of Mum.
Not because of Dave.
Just because I needed him.
I needed his wisdom.
His steadiness.
His quiet way of saying everything without saying anything.
And me — being an awkward British male — I struggled to say the words that mattered.
Words of love.
Words I’d never said while he was alive.
I’d expressed it in my own way.
But now those words stuck in my throat.
I didn’t want to be in that position again.
Not with Ashton.
Not with anyone.
Not even with Dave, however much he annoyed the ever-loving shit out of me.
I was in love with Ashton.
He was it for me.
He was my everything.
Everything I’d ever wanted.
Everything I’d ever dreamed of.
I wasn’t hiding anymore.
Not even from myself.
It was time, time to tell the truth.
Not only mine, but my father’s.
Tomorrow is Saturday, and Chris is coming to visit Mum, much like he used to visit Dad.
Ashton had offered to come down to be here when Chris arrived.
Part of me wanted him here — wanted the comfort of his hand in mine.
Yet the part of me that was so much like my father, the part that made me a Wilson, said no.
I needed to do this alone.
Not just for me.
For Dad.
So, I went to Mum’s early.
Exposing myself to two days of watching her struggle.
I arrived before noon to find her in the kitchen mixing Dad’s favourite fruit cake.
It was my favourite too.
Every Sunday, Dad and I would pretend we were judges, scoring Mum on how well the cake had turned out.
If the fruit had sunk.
If it was over-baked.
If it was dry.
We’d give it a score out of ten.
Now, I hope Mum remembered how to make it.
I left her to do her baking and went into the sitting room to wait.
Chris arrived a little after lunch.
He looked older than I remembered. Smaller.
Lines etched into his face like a map of years I’d never lived.
Looking at him was almost like looking at Dad.
So much shared history.
So many memories.
Just how well did Chris know him?
Did he know about Dad?
About the men?
About the sex?
Did he accept it?
Or turn a blind eye?
My heart hammered as I sat opposite him.
“It’s been a while, Robbie. How are you finding things these days?”
There were so many ways I could have answered.
I could have lied.
Said I was okay.
Said everything was fine.
But I owed it to myself to be honest.
“It’s not been easy,” I said. “Not with Mum slipping away. Or Dave acting like a man-child. But...my boyfriend has been amazing.”
I watched him closely.
Waiting for the flinch.
The raised eyebrow.
The awkward cough.
Nothing.
He just sipped his tea, as if I hadn’t dropped the mother of all truth bombs.
“You know your dad would be so proud,” he said. “Not just of how you’re holding the family together. But because you’ve been standing up for yourself. That’s all Rick ever wanted. For you to be yourself.”
“Did you know about him?” I asked quietly. “About the men?”
Chris nodded slowly.
“I grew up with your dad. Known him since we were knee-high to a grasshopper. We were latchkey kids — there wasn’t much we didn’t get up to.
Rick tried to deny that part of himself.
He loved you and your brother. Never doubt that.
And Sheila — your mum — he adored her. But the eighties.
..” He shook his head. “Being into men back then? It wasn’t safe.
Queer-bashing wasn’t rare. People thought you could catch AIDS from breathing the same air.
Being seen as straight made life simpler. ”
Of all the things I expected him to say, this wasn’t it.
“Your dad was a complicated man, and my best friend. And he was in awe of you. Of your strength. Of your writing. That it was a gay story? Well...that was a bonus. He raised you to be better. To accept a part of him he couldn’t.”
I took a sip of my tea.
It was cold.
I didn’t care.
I needed a moment to breathe.
To process.
To let the truth settle.
Chris leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“He’d be proud of you, Robbie. Not because you’re following in his footsteps. But because you’re walking your own path. Openly. Honestly. He wanted that for you more than anything.”
My throat tightened.
I blinked hard, but the tears came anyway.
“I just...I wish he could have met Ashton.”
Chris smiled — soft, knowing.
“Ashton...is perfect for you. Your dad couldn’t have done better if he had chosen him for you.”
I breathed.
Really breathed.
For the first time since Dad died, the grief didn’t crush me.
It held me.
Gently.
Like a hand on my shoulder.
Chris stood, patting my knee.
“Your dad didn’t get the chance to live fully as himself. But you do. Don’t waste it.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Later, when I stepped outside, the autumn air was crisp and bright.
I pulled out my phone.
A message from Ashton waited on the screen.
I smiled.
A real smile.
One dad would have recognised.
“I’m ready,” I whispered.
And for the first time in a long time,
I truly was.
THE END