Chương 6
The space between them felt like a distance measured in years rather than feet.
"I need answers," Daniel said.
David rubbed his hands together.
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Sorry."
Daniel looked at him.
The apology sounded strange.
Not because it was wrong.
Because he had imagined his father apologizing a thousand times.
In every version, it had sounded perfect.
This sounded like a tired man who did not know what words could repair.
"What happened?" Daniel asked.
David stared at the floor.
"Your mother and I separated before I left."
Daniel frowned.
"Separated?"
"Yes."
"You were married."
"Yes."
"Then you left."
David nodded.
"I did."
The simple admission surprised him.
No defense.
No explanation yet.
Just acceptance.
"Why?"
David looked toward the window.
"When I was younger, I thought leaving was the same as protecting someone."
Daniel said nothing.
"It wasn't."
The room stayed quiet.
Outside, someone started a lawn mower.
The sound was oddly ordinary.
Daniel looked around the room while David gathered his thoughts.
There were photographs on a shelf.
Most were old.
A fishing trip.
A dog.
A group of people standing in front of a cabin.
No pictures of Daniel.
That should have relieved him.
Instead, it hurt.
"I got into trouble," David said.
Daniel looked back.
"What kind of trouble?"
"Financial."
The answer was almost disappointing.
Not because it was small.
Because some part of Daniel had expected something dramatic.
A secret life.
A hidden crime.
Something large enough to justify the emptiness.
Instead, it was money.
Bills.
Fear.
Shame.
Things that ruined families every day without anyone noticing.
"I made bad decisions," David continued.
"I borrowed money I couldn't repay."
Daniel watched him.
"From who?"
"People I should not have trusted."
"That sounds convenient."
"It does."
David nodded.
"Because it is."
Daniel leaned back.
"So you ran."
"Yes."
The honesty bothered him more than an excuse would have.
"Your mother found out."
"When?"
"About a month before I left."
Daniel looked toward the floor.
The same month.
The same period he had remembered as normal.
He remembered his father helping him build a model airplane at the kitchen table.
He remembered laughing when the wings came out uneven.
He remembered his father saying they could fix almost anything.
"Did you know you were leaving forever?"
David closed his eyes briefly.
"No."
Daniel waited.
"I thought I was leaving for a few weeks."
"To fix things."
"Yes."
"But you never came back."
David swallowed.
"No."
The word stayed between them.
Daniel looked at the man's face.
There was something uncomfortable about seeing regret on someone you spent years imagining without a conscience.
"You could have called."
"Yes."
"You could have written."
"Yes."
"You could have done anything."
David nodded.
"Yes."
Daniel stood.
The movement surprised both of them.
"Then why didn't you?"
David looked up.
"Because every day I waited, it became harder."
Daniel stared.
"That makes no sense."
"It does when you are ashamed."
"No."
Daniel shook his head.
"It doesn't."
David did not argue.
"Your mother sent me one letter."
Daniel stopped.
"What?"
"Three months after I left."
"What did it say?"
David looked down.
"I don't know if I should tell you."
Daniel laughed quietly.
"You really have no idea how frustrating that is."
"I know."
Daniel gave him a look.
David almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the expression disappeared.
"She said you were asking questions."
Daniel looked away.
"I was eight."
"She said you waited by the window every afternoon."
The words hit harder than expected.
Daniel remembered.
He hated that he remembered.
He hated that a part of him had been waiting for someone who never arrived.
"She said you stopped talking about me."
Daniel sat back down.
"What else?"
David hesitated.
"She said she told you I chose not to come back."
Daniel felt something inside him shift.
Not break.
Shift.
"Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Choose?"
David looked at him.
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Daniel stared at him.
"Then what was the choice?"
David's eyes moved toward the photographs on the shelf.
"Your mother asked me not to return."
The room became still.
Daniel's first reaction was disbelief.
Then anger.
"She told you to leave?"
"Yes."
"And you listened?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
David looked exhausted.
"Because at the time, I thought she was right."
Daniel stood again.
"She was wrong."
"I know."
"Stop doing that."
David looked down.
"I'm sorry."
Daniel walked toward the window.
The same feeling returned.
Everyone had made choices around him.
Everyone had protected him from something.
Everyone had decided the truth belonged to them.
"Did she hate you?"
David looked surprised.
"No."
"Then why?"
"Because she loved you."
Daniel turned.
"That doesn't answer anything."
"No."
David's voice softened.
"It doesn't."
He looked at his hands.
"She was afraid that if I came back, you would forgive me before you understood what happened."
Daniel frowned.
"That sounds like her."
The words came out before he could stop them.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then David gave a small, sad smile.
"Yes."
Daniel sat again.
The anger was still there.
But now it had nowhere clean to go.
His father had failed him.
His mother had hidden things.
And somehow both of them had believed they were doing the right thing.
That was the part Daniel hated most.
Bad people were easier.
They made sense.
People who loved you and still hurt you were harder to understand.
David reached toward a small wooden box on the table.
He stopped before touching it.
"She left this for you."
Daniel looked at the box.
"What is it?"
"Something she wanted you to have when you were ready."
"How long have you had it?"
"Since the funeral."
Daniel stared.
"You went to my mother's funeral?"
David looked away.
"Yes."
"I was there."
"I know."
Daniel felt his chest tighten.
"You saw me?"
David nodded.
"But you didn't come over."
"No."
"Why?"
May you like
David looked at him.
"Because your mother asked me for one last thing before she died."
