Chapter 38 #3
The bag feels heavier than it should as I pass it to him. He reaches inside and withdraws a journal bound in faded burgundy leather, its spine cracked from years of handling. My breath catches—Mom's handwriting on the cover.
Dad's fingers move with practiced precision to a dog-eared page. "This part," he says, tapping a paragraph. "You need to see this."
I trace Mom's handwriting with my fingertips, a knot forming in my throat...
I've chosen my path. This choice will take my life, but I've already bonded with the miracle growing inside me. Another boy—my little Max. Last night I dreamed of him, a perfect reflection of Michael, my North Star, the man who's held my heart since the moment we met.
The weight of leaving behind seven other sons without their mother crushes me, but I cannot sacrifice my unborn child so that I might live for my seven other sons.
Each of my boys carries a piece of my soul, though Roman—my stormy, complicated three-year-old—concerns me most. He reminds me so much of my father: brilliant and kind, yet harboring a tempest within.
Dad found salvation in running endless miles; I hope Roman discovers his own sanctuary from the chaos in his mind.
Above all, Roman needs reassurance of his worthiness of love, though he resists it fiercely.
Sweet Cameron wears his heart openly—may he never change.
The twins, Kalen and Connor, are barely toddlers; I pray they find their way without memories of me to guide them.
Little Ansel remains a beautiful mystery.
As for six-year-old Asher, our prodigy who devoured Great Expectations at four and truly comprehended it—brilliance awaits him.
And serious Silas, so thoughtful and deep even now…
I hope they can all forgive me for the choice I made. And it is my choice. I love them all.
I read her words and my head drops like it's been cut from my body.
She chose to die for Max—a choice I've crucified him for all these years.
But now I understand. She did it for love of Max and, goddammit, she worried about me the most. She saw the hurricane raging inside me even then, and with her dying breath, begged me to find peace.
And what have I done? Spat on everything she wanted.
She'd be gutted if she knew how my temper has burned every bridge, poisoned every relationship.
The first tear hits my hand like acid. Then another. Then a flood breaks through a dam I built thirty years ago. I grab for the Kleenex on Dad's nightstand, but it's useless against this deluge.
Dad pats the bed, and something primal in me responds.
I climb into his bed and collapse beside him, my body convulsing with each sob.
And suddenly I'm drowning in a memory—I did cry once, didn't I? We all did, crawling into Dad’s gigantic bed, all of us seeking shelter.
His arm wrapped around me then as it is now, and the fortress I've spent my life building crumbles to dust. I'm three years old again, my soul being ripped in half as I realize my mother is gone forever.
Dad grips my shoulder, his fingers digging in.
"Roman," he says, voice breaking. "I love you.
She loved you. She loves you still. I believe that with everything I am.
When you die, that love burns on like a supernova—and right now, she's watching us.” His eyes glisten.
"She's finally at peace. Because her son came back to me. "
My throat closes completely. I can only nod as twenty-two years of rage and grief collapse inside me.
I'm back with him. Finally. The weight of his arm across my shoulders anchors me to this moment—this is where I belong, where I've always belonged.
And somewhere beyond this world, Mom is watching her broken men finally heal, her son allowing her husband to hold him together when he's been shattering apart for so fucking long.
The doctor comes in, interrupting this father-son bonding that’s finally happening. “We need to prep Mr. Kensington for surgery,” he says gently.
I nod, getting out of the bed and giving his hand a firm squeeze.
"Dad, kick some ass in there," I tell him, my voice gruffer than I intended.
"I'm not going anywhere. Well—" I clear my throat.
"I mean, I won't be sitting in this exact chair the whole time, but when you open your eyes, you'll see me. Count on it."
He nods, tears in his eyes. “Roman, I can’t tell you how much this means to me that you’re here.”
I nod back, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat.
"I am, Dad. And I always will be." The unspoken thought hangs between us: Don't disappoint me again.
My fingers flex involuntarily, muscle memory from years in the ring.
A realization washes over me like the tide at Palos Verdes—I'm not powerless anymore. If he vanishes like before, I have the resources to find him, the strength to confront him and I’ll bring his ass right back.
I'm not that abandoned ten-year-old anymore.
My shoulders relax slightly as this understanding settles in my chest, a strange comfort in this fragile reconciliation.