Chapter 50 #2
He nods, his eyes fixed on a spot beyond my shoulder.
"Dad's been begging me for years to come home, be a father to my boys.
" His fingers tighten around his coffee mug.
"I always gave him the same answer—couldn't do it, not while the bottle had me.
So yeah, we stayed in touch. Mom too. But they've kept me a ghost to my own sons.
No questions, no explanations. Buried the subject. Suited me fine."
"Why England of all places?" I ask.
"My Uncle Thomas lives there. Took me in without question."
"And Joseph was okay with that arrangement?"
His mouth twists. "My father and his brother Thomas started with nothing—Scottish orphans.
Dad came to America chasing dollars. Thomas stayed in the UK, moving from Scotland to England.
While my father built empires, Thomas built fences.
Tended his land. Lives in a stone cottage that hasn't changed in a century.
" He traces a circle on the table with his finger.
"Thomas thought Dad sold his soul for mansions and sports cars.
Dad thought Thomas wasted his life milking cows and watching seasons change.
Thirty years without a phone call between them.
" He looks up, eyes hollow. "Yet when I showed up drunk on Thomas's doorstep, he just handed me a blanket and never mentioned the whiskey on my breath. "
I smile. "So Thomas is the black sheep of the family?
Like Ewan Roy on Succession?" I love Succession, and on that show, Logan Roy is the media titan and billionaire. His brother Ewan is anti-wealth and an environmentalist and doesn’t get along with Logan because the two men are fundamentally opposed to how the other lives.
He returns my smile. "You could say that.
Uncle Thomas rejected everything about Dad's world.
He's content with his dairy farm in the English countryside, knows all the locals by name.
Thinks billionaires are just glorified thieves who never pay their fair share.
Dad won't even mention his name anymore—can't stand knowing there's someone out there who sees through all the mansions and private jets to what he really is. "
I nod. "If Thomas thought Joseph was morally bankrupt from chasing wealth, how did he feel about your sons being raised by him?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Thomas hated it, but what choice did we have? I couldn't raise them." His eyes drift toward the window. "He just prayed Dad's values wouldn't rub off on the boys." He turns back to me. "You don't think they did, do you?"
"From what I've seen, no," I say. "I'm not close with them, but they seem grounded, despite all they've achieved."
He nods. "One's got an Oscar on his mantle, another saves lives in the OR, four run companies, and another fills stadiums." A wistful smile crosses his face. "More success than any father deserves, really."
"They've certainly made their mark professionally," I say.
“But how are they doing emotionally?” he asks. “I haven’t spoken to Dad since I came to California, so I don’t really know what’s been happening with them these past few months.”
I shrug. “I only know Max well. Truthfully, he’s devastated by your absence. I can’t say how the others feel—I only hear so much—but Max has always told me how much he wants you back in his life.”
He lowers his head. “I know. Guilt’s been my shadow all these years.”
“So why return now?” I press. “You’ve been gone this whole time. What changed?”
He exhales. “I’m tired of running. I want to meet my sons, but I can’t quit drinking.”
I reach out and touch his hand. “Do you need help? Can I help you stop? More importantly, are you ready?”
He nods. “If I wasn’t ready, I wouldn’t be here. But I don’t know where to start. I know I should go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings—I’ve even looked up some locally—but something’s holding me back.”
“Would it help if someone went with you?” I suggest. “Maybe Max and I—”
He shakes his head emphatically. “No. Not Max, or any of my sons. I don’t want them to see me until I’m sober and whole. And if you tell Max you’ve seen me, I’ll just go back to England and stay with Uncle Thomas.”
I nod, resolve settling in. Max helped me by financing Mom’s experimental treatment.
Now I’ll step in to help Max reconnect with his father.
It seems Michael’s willing to attend meetings if he has support—and I’ll be there with him.
I’ll go to those meetings, pray he recovers, and hope he can reunite with Max and his brothers.
I lean forward. "I could go with you. To the meetings."
His eyes light up. "Really? I know we barely know each other, but there's something about you—" He pauses, searching for words. "Something trustworthy. Would you do that? Help me stay on track? I want my sons back in my life. I'm ready this time." His voice cracks on the last word.
I reach across and place my hand over his weathered one. "I'll help you."
"But Max can't know," he says quickly. "Not yet."
"He'll wonder where I'm disappearing to every evening."
Michael's face falls. "I'm putting you in a terrible position."
I bite my lip, weighing the options. Telling Max means risking Michael fleeing back to England. Lying to Max means betraying his trust. The scale tips easily—Max deserves a chance to reconnect with his father, even if I have to manufacture late nights at the office for a while.
I glance at my watch. "When do the meetings start and end?"
"Seven to nine," Michael says.
"That means I won't be home until almost ten each night."
"Just for the first few weeks," he says, leaning forward. "Until I get my footing in recovery. Then I can scale back to two or three meetings a week." His eyes search mine. "Is that going to be an issue?"
"Not at all," I say, the lie sticking in my throat. "I'll tell Max I'm working late."
Michael's weathered hand covers mine. "You're somebody special, you know that? Helping a stranger like this."
I shake my head. "I'm not just doing it for you. I'm doing it for your sons—for Max and his brothers. For your parents too." I meet his gaze. "They deserve to see you sober. They deserve to have you present in their lives again."
As I jog home, a knot forms in my stomach. Max isn't stupid. How long before my nightly "work sessions" raise suspicions? This could explode in my face.
I take a deep breath and push the thought away.