Chapter 29 #2
The way he said it almost broke something inside me.
There was no irritation in his voice. He sounded almost genuinely curious.
Like he was actually giving me space to speak, which also meant he had already given me more than anyone else ever had.
I opened my mouth to answer him, but it felt like the words were getting stuck somewhere between my head and my tongue, unable to make it past my lips.
“My name is Rowan.” It sounded off, even to me. Like I was introducing myself to someone I wasn’t supposed to. The second it left my mouth, something changed. I saw it. His eyes scanned me, or more accurately, zoomed in on me. I don’t actually think it was my name that triggered something in him.
Maybe it was some kind of instinct, I don’t fucking know.
But whatever it was, I could see it clearly in his eyes, in the way his expression changed when he looked at me.
His eyes moved, not away from me, but over me.
Across my face, like he was reading something he hadn’t realized was there until now.
Taking in details one by one. My eyes, my jaw, the shape of my mouth, back up again.
Slower each time. And then it stopped, right on me.
That’s when it landed, you could see it happen.
His eyes got that slight glassy shift that you don’t notice unless you’re looking for it, and I was.
We stood there like that for a few seconds, neither of us moving.
And I didn’t feel what I thought I would, that’s the part I keep coming back to.
Because there should’ve been something. Anger, satisfaction, something to grab onto.
I don’t even know if I have the right word for it, and I’m not going to pretend I do.
He stepped back, created space for me to enter between him and the open door.
“Come in,” he said, and his voice didn’t match anything I had prepared for. It was warm and it made me hesitate for a second. “Please.”
I moved before I thought too much about it.
Crossed the threshold, and just like that, I was inside.
The air felt different. You notice that when you enter someone else’s space, whether you want to or not.
There’s always something in it that doesn’t belong to you.
A smell, a temperature, something subtle that tells you you’re not where you were before.
It smelled clean. There was a faint scent underneath it, something softer.
Maybe soap, maybe whatever they used on the furniture.
I didn’t recognize it, but it stayed in the back of my throat in a way that made me aware of it every time I breathed in.
The hallway opened up immediately. High ceiling, light coming from further inside the house, spreading out into the entrance without being harsh.
The floors were dark wood, polished, not in a glossy way, but maintained.
You could see the reflection of movement if you looked for it.
There were things on the walls. Not clutter, nothing random.
Framed photos, a few pieces of art. Everything spaced out like someone had actually thought about where it should go instead of just filling empty space.
It didn’t feel staged, this was lived in.
A proper fucking home.
“My wife’s at work,” he said behind me as he closed the door. “Evening shift.” His voice carried easily through the space. Natural, like this was a normal conversation to be having. Nothing about this situation felt normal, because it wasn’t.
“Come,” he paused like he was deciding something mid sentence, then continued. “Come sit. We can talk in the living room.” He glanced at me again, just briefly.
“Do you want something? Water? Coffee?”
I shook my head, didn’t trust my voice yet, but my legs followed him further into the house.
The living room opened up on the right, larger than the hallway.
Furniture placed where it made sense, not just to look good but to be used.
A dark sofa, wide enough that two people sitting on opposite ends wouldn’t touch.
A low table in front of it, glass surface, nothing messy on it.
Just a couple of books stacked neatly and something decorative I didn’t bother focusing on.
There was a window along one wall, curtains half drawn, letting in just enough of the outside light to mix with the lamps inside.
Everything stayed in that same warm tone as the rest of the house.
It looked comfortable, and it was, that was the problem. He gestured toward the sofa. I sat far enough that there was space between us when he took his place on the other side, facing me. He looked at me properly this time, took his time with it.
“... So,” A small exhale followed it, like he was trying to place the words in the right order and not quite getting there the first time. “You’re…” He stopped himself for a moment before he started again.
“You’re my son.” I nodded. It felt easier than speaking.
He let out a breath through his nose, something almost like a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but softer.
“Yeah…” he murmured, more to himself than to me. His eyes moved over my face again, not searching this time, just taking it in. “You look like me,” he said. “When I was your age.”
His gaze lingered on my face, and for a moment, the man sitting in front of me didn’t feel like a stranger. He kept looking at me with that look on his face, like whatever he was seeing, he didn’t want to scare it off by reacting too fast.
“I,” he started, then stopped himself, like the sentence didn’t come out the way he meant it to. He rubbed his hand lightly over his mouth, thinking, eyes dropping for a second before finding me again.
“I hoped you would come one day,” he said finally. “I didn’t know when, or how, but… I thought about it. A lot.” A small, almost embarrassed breath left him. “Just… seeing you again. Finding out what happened, what became of you.”
It landed so wrong. Something in my spine pulled tight all the way around my body until it settled in my chest. I felt it settle in my shoulders, that slight tension creeping in, pulling them back without me realizing it.
Then my jaw, I noticed I was clenching it when it started to ache, not before.
My hands had settled against my thighs, but my fingers weren’t still. Small movements, pressing, releasing, like I was testing something without thinking about it. I didn’t like the way he said it. I leaned back a little, but enough to create space that hadn’t been there a second ago.
“I don’t remember you.” It came out flat.
“Either of you,” I added after a second.
“You or her.” He had no reaction to my words.
For a moment, I thought he might try to argue it.
Correct me, fill in the gaps like people usually do when they think memory is something you can just fix.
Instead, he nodded, slowly. “No,” he said, almost under his breath. “No, I wouldn’t expect you to.”
His gaze dropped again, this time staying there.
“I wasn’t allowed to see you, I didn’t get the chance,” he continued, his voice lower now. “And your mother, she…” He stopped and exhaled, longer this time, like whatever he was about to say needed to be pushed out properly.
“Rowan, I tried. I really did.” That was where it shifted for me. Because it sounded real and I didn’t have anywhere to put that.
“My mother what?” The words came out before I fully decided on them. He looked up at me again, then away, down at the floor this time, his hands coming together loosely in front of him like he needed something to focus on that wasn’t me. He took his time answering.
“She had her own problems,” he said quietly. “More than I understood at the time.” He swallowed, then continued, like he’d already committed to saying it and backing out wasn’t an option anymore.
“I met her when I was teaching at the university. She worked there in the evenings. Cleaning.” A small, almost absent movement of his head, like he was placing himself back there for a second.
“I had just finished my degree. Was still… figuring things out, I guess. I stayed late most nights, preparing lectures, going over material. It became routine.”
His voice changed a little when he talked about it. Like he wasn’t fully in the room anymore, but not completely gone either.
“I would see her sometimes,” he continued. “Not properly at first, just passing. A nod, maybe a few words if we crossed paths more than once. She kept to herself for the most part.”
My eyes stayed on him the entire time, following every shift, every small change in his expression, like if I looked away for even a second I’d miss something that mattered.