Chapter Forty-Three – A.J. #2
“When the pandemic hit,” Martha says, her voice shaking. “We didn’t know if you were all right—if you were even alive. After weeks of uncertainty and canceled flights, we managed to come here and go to your label’s office.”
“When the pandemic hit.” Martha’s voice shakes with the fear she must’ve felt. “We didn’t know where you were. If you were okay — even if you were still alive… After weeks of not knowing, and tests and travel bans… we managed to get here and go straight to the label.”
“You what?” I’m shocked, but I swallow it down, imagining how desperate they must’ve been to show up there and find… nothing.
“We tried to reach Big D. for days, but nothing.” She gives up fighting the tears, letting them fall as she talks. “We pretty much camped out at the front door until we finally caught him.”
My body almost bolts off the couch, afraid of what that man might’ve told them.
“He said some crap about you — not worth repeating,” my mom says, her voice edged with anger as another tear falls. “And he told us you’d resigned and he couldn’t help.”
“Sometimes I think even if he could have helped, he wouldn’t have,” Dad whispers.
“So you already know this side of the story,” I say, exhaling. “You know I made the worst mistake of my life choosing Big D. over my family.”
My eyes sting at the name. They exchange looks.
“We always knew he wasn’t a good choice,” Patrick says, a soft smile, almost patronizing. “But you wanted that life, it was your dream. And we failed you by not standing by your side, not giving you everything you needed to deal with a shark in the industry that we already knew could break you.”
“I was an adult—there wasn’t much you could do,” I let out a dry laugh, rolling my eyes, but the lump in my throat scrapes every inch of it.
Having them here after all this time only reminds me I lost years with my parents out of guilt, not uncertainty—and that hurts even more.
“You were just a kid, Anthony. So even if…” My mom swallows hard, another tear slipping from her left eye. “Even if you rebelled and left home, we should’ve fixed things before you went.”
“Waiting for you to see how awful it was and decide for yourself? Not our best parenting move,” Dad admits. “But the pandemic ended and suddenly we saw you on TV—never felt such relief in my life,” he adds, hand on his chest.
“The world was about to see your real talent—not just a song—your story. I understood why you came.” Martha forces a smile.
I’m doing everything I can not to cry, because once I start, it won’t be easy to stop.
“It wasn’t selfishness—you really are exceptional.
But we didn’t support you, so it made sense you didn’t want us around in the end. ”
I have no response. There are no easy answers here. I’ve regretted leaving home when my song became a hit; then when I did the reality show; formed Vicious; rehearsed in Guilherme’s garage; on our first gig; when I got my first paycheck…
I missed them at every time but never reached out.
We were all blinded by pride. And now we’re three people wondering what to do next.
“I agree that you guys could’ve done more, but I could’ve too. Because I always knew where to find you,” I break the silence, being as honest as I can.
“Nothing we say will erase the last few years, Anthony. But we love you. Every day apart was exactly what your mother said — like mourning a son who’s still alive. And I don’t think you can forgive how we failed you, but I’d like you to consider moving forward with us.”
“You were eighteen when you left. Now you’re a grown man, and we didn’t get to see that happen,” my mother says, her face twisting in pain.
I want so badly to hug her, but I don’t think I can do that.
I don’t think I should. “Our pride kept us from watching you grow, and that’s something we’ll never get back.
But the next years don’t have to be like the last ones… that’s why we’re here.”
My mother’s sniffles, holding out her hand to me and Alexandra ’s voice rings in my head: You lived with them for eighteen years, and you’ve got your whole life ahead—one day those six years won’t seem so long.
And this is what makes me take my mother’s hand when she’s just about to pull it back, ashamed.
“I don’t blame you—never did. And I love you both. But it’s still hard,” I say, squeezing her hand. She nods.
“Being here with us or facing the past?”
Both. The word’s almost out of my mouth, but it’d be a lie.
“The past,” I say, my voice rough, and quote Alex’s line—in English—“ Maybe one day I’ll look back without the past burning my skin, but today’s not that day. ”
“Then here’s my proposal.” Dad stands, tapping his thigh.
“Since we love you, and you still love us, how about we leave the past behind for now and celebrate your birthday today? A quarter-century is an important milestone.” Patrick smiles, doing everything he can to keep from crying.
“Is there anywhere a world-famous star can have lunch around here without making headlines?”
I meet his gaze. For a second, I almost don’t believe it — almost ask how he can just…
move on like that. But then I remember: I haven’t celebrated my birthday in six years.
I missed them, blamed myself for being away, even when they never did.
So, even if I don’t know how to face the past yet, maybe I can handle today — and this future that’s suddenly showing up.
“Actually… Alex made some Brazilian stuff for us, and it’s amazing — Wanna try it?” I stand up, hand out to Martha. She glances at Patrick for a beat, then back at me, nodding quickly, eyes bright with tears.