Chapter 38 #2
I'm mourning a ghost. The man who lays in that hospital bed isn't my father—he's just wearing his face.
The guy who used to storm into boardrooms and close million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat is gone.
In his place is this... shadow, fumbling with his eco-resort blueprints and second-chance romance.
During those brief windows of sobriety in my childhood, I caught glimpses of who he could be.
Now I have to accept what remains: a man hollowed out by two decades of regret and the crater my mother's death left behind.
He'll never be whole again. But maybe I can stop being an asshole long enough to let him piece together whatever life he has left.
My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"Dad," I finally say, my voice like gravel.
"Mom's death destroyed you. Broke you. And you just kept drinking.
You never even tried to get help—not rehab, not AA, nothing.
" I look him straight in the eyes, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
"You could have fought for us. Your sons. But you didn't even try."
He shakes his head. "Son, there's something I never told you boys.
Well, Max knows. I've battled depression my whole life.
" His eyes drift to some middle distance.
"Growing up was hell. My folks thought depression was just weakness.
'Man up, Michael. Stop your bellyaching.
' When I was fifteen, I attempted suicide - swallowed a whole bottle of my mother’s sleeping pills.
" He swallows hard. "After my attempt, doctors recommended medication, but my parents shipped me off to military school instead.
" A heavy sigh escapes him. "It wasn't until college—sitting in Psych 101—that everything clicked.
Got myself to a doctor, started meds. My physician finally called my parents, broke it down for them.
'Michael's brain chemistry is off. He needs these pills like a diabetic needs insulin. ' That's when they finally got it."
I bow my head. This is the first I’m hearing this. “So, when Mom died….”
Michael's hands trembled as he spoke. "After Catherine passed, I...
I stopped taking care of myself. My medication—I just couldn't remember to take it.
Or maybe I didn't want to." He swallowed hard.
"The dark thoughts came every day after that.
Every single day. It wasn't just grief—it was the SSRI withdrawal, the drinking. God, I convinced myself the whiskey was medicine - why did I need Prozac when I had Jack Daniels?” His voice softened.
"Patricia saved me. She understood what it means to stare death in the face—her battle with breast cancer taught her that.
She connected me with her therapist." A fragile smile crossed his face.
"For the first time in decades, I can see daylight breaking through. "
I stare at him for a moment. "Oh." My jaw tightens as I consider what I really need to know.
"So, Dad," I finally say, my voice steadier than I feel.
"What happens if Patricia leaves you? Or if she—I don't know—gets hit by a bus tomorrow?
Are you going to crawl back into a bottle and disappear for another twenty years?
Because that's your pattern. That's what you did when things got hard before.
Why should I believe anything's different now? "
Christ. How am I supposed to trust him again?
If I let him back in and he bails a second time, I won't just feel like an idiot—I'll be destroyed.
He needs to give me more than some bullshit about how he's a changed man.
Uncle Thomas's farm is still running, and I'd bet my flagship resort that Thomas would welcome him back tomorrow without a single question.
And there's no way my brothers haven't grilled him about this already. Especially Silas.
He nods. "Trust isn't something I expect from you, Roman.
Not after I vanished for twenty-two years.
" He rubs his thumb against his sobriety chip.
"You deserve concrete reasons to believe I'm different now. And here they are - I’ve got a therapist who doesn't let me hide from myself—three sessions every week.
Never bothered with that before." His voice softens.
"My sponsor answers my calls at three in the morning when the old demons visit.
The whole AA group—they see me clearly and still choose to stand beside me.
" He sighs. "Patricia and I are good together.
She fills some of the emptiness your mother's death left.
But you're right to question that too. Life offers no certainties.
The difference is, this time I've built myself a lifeboat before sailing into rough waters. "
I nod. The therapist and AA—that's new. My jaw clenches.
If he'd gotten help twenty-two years ago...
but that's not how it went down. The past is the past. Now I'm staring at two doors: behind one, I believe he's changed, that he won't detonate our lives again.
Behind the other, I let him back in without promises.
I run my hand through my hair, suddenly realizing there's no third door anymore—the one where I keep telling him to go to hell and never look back.
Somewhere along the line, I've already made the choice to have him in my life, one way or another.
Dad's eyes find mine. "Roman, I've noticed something. You hold Max responsible, don't you? For everything that happened."
I don't bother denying it. The truth sits between us like a third person.
"I want to show you something I never leave behind." Dad gestures toward a battered leather satchel in the corner. "Would you mind?"