Chapter 56
Haiyden
The house looms ahead—unchanged, yet somehow, different tonight. Maybe it’s the tightness in my chest. Or the way the air feels charged, like something’s about to snap.
Only my dad’s car is in the driveway. My mom’s is probably tucked in the garage. He was always good at the little performances. The polite gestures. The illusion of being a good husband. A good father. Just another layer of the lie.
I pull in behind him, dread settling low in my stomach.
I’ve made it this far before—only to back out, drive past, pretend I never even thought about stopping.
Maybe this was a mistake.
The porch light flickers. I notice it from the car—just like I did when I was a kid.
Back then, it was a lighthouse, guiding me home. Now, it’s more like a warning—flashing yellow. Proceed with caution.
He never fixed it. That’s how things worked in this house. Problems weren’t solved. They were ignored .
But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I already know the truth. I just need to face it.
I step out of the car, hands flexing at my sides. As I climb the porch steps, my fingers brush the edge of my pocket—a quick check—then fall back to my side.
My hands curl into fists. Relax. Curl again.
I don’t knock. I never had to. Not even now, after all these months. After everything between us.
The door creaks open, and the familiar scent of old leather and home slams into me. But the warmth that used to live in this house—the noise, the laughter, Willow—is long gone.
All that’s left is rot.
I hear footsteps in the kitchen. The shuffle of slippers. I move toward the sound, each step pulsing with purpose.
When I step into the room, my mom spins around, startled. A dish towel twists in her hands. The plate she’s holding nearly slips from her fingers.
For a second, something tugs at me—guilt, maybe.
Wondering if she knew. If she missed me.
If part of her is innocent in all this.
She stares at me, wide-eyed, like she’s seen a ghost. The silence stretches—heavy, brittle—until she finally speaks.
“Haiyden…”
There’s something cautious in her voice. A note of warning just beneath the surface.
I can barely look at her.
“I didn’t know you remembered the way home,” she says with a strained laugh .
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
She doesn’t want me here. That much is clear.
“Are you okay? You look tired.”
I don’t want small talk or her shallow concerns. I don’t want to pretend. I just want this to be over.
“Is Dad here?”
She hesitates. Less than a second—but it’s enough.
“He’s in the living room,” she says quietly. Then, softer—like it might change something—”Please don’t start anything tonight.”
I turn and walk away, leaving her in the kitchen, gripping the towel like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
My footsteps are quiet as I move through the house.
When I step into the living room, it’s dim, the only light coming from the TV. I don’t cross the threshold. Just stand there, half in shadow, watching him breathing like nothing’s broken.
This room used to feel safe. Willow and I spent hours here—building pillow forts, watching movies, spreading out across the couch when we were sick.
Now it’s cold. A memory with the air sucked out of it.
My dad’s exactly where I knew he’d be—sunk deep into his chair, drink in hand, ice clinking quietly against a glass.
I can smell the whiskey from here. And for a second, I crave it.
The numbness.
The way it used to quiet everything down.
He doesn’t look up right away. Just sits there, like always. Like this is still his house, and I’m just passing through.
When he finally glances over, there’s no surprise on his face. Barely even recognition. But there’s something—a flash of irritation, maybe—before he turns back to his drink and swirls it slowly.
“Well, well,” he says, like it’s a joke. “Look who finally crawled back.”
There’s no anger. Just condescension.
Like I’m a stray dog that bolted and came limping back when it realized it couldn’t make it on its own.
I keep my distance, watching.
“Took you long enough to grow a spine,” he says. “Thought you’d go your whole life without one.”
This is the pattern. It’s typical. He’s always owned the conversation. Owned me.
But not this time. Not anymore.
I let it sit. Let him feel it.
Then I speak.
“Enough, Dad.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“I want to hear you say it.”
He snorts. “Say what?”
I don’t blink. “What you did.”
He exhales, like I’m being dramatic. “Don’t start this, Haiyden.”
“Why not?” I ask, calm. “Because it’s easier if we just pretend none of it happened?”
His eyes finally meet mine. He really looks at me.
And for a second, I catch something buried deep in them—exhaustion, probably, even regret.
But then it’s gone. His expression hardens again.
He scoffs. “Pretend,” he repeats. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
He shifts in his chair. Not much. Just enough to hide the way his fingers twitch around the glass.
“I can’t pretend I didn’t lose my daughter,” he says, his voice lowering. “If you actually understood that, maybe you’d stop acting so goddamn righteous.”
I hold his stare.
“I understand just fine, Dad.”
He lets out a humorless laugh and shakes his head.
“You’ve always been weak,” he mutters. “Always let shit slide when you should’ve taken control.”
The words land, but I don’t react.
“Is that why you did it?” I ask quietly. “Because you wanted control?”
“Careful,” he says.
I straighten.
My fingers reach down to brush the edge of my pocket again. Just once. Just enough for him to notice.
Something shifts in the room—and he knows it.
He sees it in the way I’m not flinching. In the way I’m not folding.
I watch his fingers tighten around the glass, his jaw shift like he’s barely keeping it together.
He leans back with a sigh, shaking his head.
“You knew, Haiyden.”
I don’t answer.
“Maybe not right away. Maybe not everything. But you knew.”
I force myself to stay still. Blank. Tall.
“One day,” he says, voice low, threatening. “You’ll see we’re not all that different.”
And maybe he’s right.
Maybe that day is today.