First, I didn’t move when I heard the knock. Scrubbing the same cup I’d scrubbed three times in the kitchen. My hands needed something to do to distract from the thoughts that built up every evening when the home grew too quiet, not because it was unclean.
The knock returned. This time firmer.
I turned toward the door, my pulse pounding like when I heard footsteps outside my cell. But this was different. I wasn’t allowed guests. Not anymore. Not since leaving. Not since parole left me down in this half-forgotten area with more boarded than illuminated windows.
Then I heard. A voice.
“Dad…it’s me.”
I froze.
17 years. I hadn’t heard Nate’s voice in that long. Last time, he ignored me when the judge read the punishment in court. I recall his shoulders hunching as they stated thirty to life. Perhaps that’s when he became someone else instead of my son.
I carefully opened the door, fearing he might disappear if I moved too fast.
There he was.
Taller than expected. Beard cut, eyes aged since I last saw him. Little girl stood alongside him. No more than six. She peered up at me with a pet bunny and her father’s pants, like a fairy tale figure she didn’t believe in.
Nate continued, “I told her you were my dad,” his voice hard to control. You just returned, I told her.”
Back.
Like I’d gone on a long business trip. Not behind barbed wire and concrete walls, accused of a murder I didn’t commit.
I retreated via the broader door. “Come in,” I said, scarcely hearing me.
We sat on the couch in the living room, still covered in plastic my landlord hadn’t removed. He named her Liana, and she pressed the remote controls like a spacecraft console, laughing sometimes.
Nate sat stiffly, doubting his place. As if he was waiting for me to snap or beg for pardon.
He replied, “She asks about her grandpa all the time,” after a lengthy quiet. “I figure it’s time she knows the truth.”
I nodded. My throat was full with unspoken words.
“I’m sorry,” he said. I thought you did it. So did Mom.”
He took a folded picture from his coat pocket. Old and wrinkled, the colors faded. I held him on my shoulders and grinned at the county fair. That was before everything went wrong. My best buddy got shot in a parking lot before. Before the police profiled me. A single fingerprint I swore wasn’t mine doomed me.
“She drew this,” he said, turning the photo. A childlike crayon sketch showed a towering guy with huge ears and a female holding hands. “She called him ‘Grandpa.’ Despite never meeting you.”
I grabbed it, shaking.
Nate retracted it. His eyes became black.
“I need to know something first,” he said.
I regarded him. “Anything.”
His jaw tightened. Had you lied to me? Even once? That night?”
It existed. The seventeen-year-old question.
“No,” I answered. Start to finish, I told you the truth. I didn’t murder Devon. After seeing him fall, I helped. Although someone reported it, the police just observed me bending over him. They only needed that.”
Nate glanced at me as if weighing my words against a lifetime of suffering.
“I got a call three months ago,” he whispered. “Private detective. Says a murderer confessed on dying. said he knew you fell.”
I blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I didn’t know what to believe. I didn’t want to believe I’d been mistaken about you forever.” Swallowed hard. “But I was.”
He gave me the artwork. Dad, I’m sorry. I should have fought more. I should’ve probed. But I was young.”
I handled the paper like glass. I don’t blame you.”
Actually, I quit blaming him years ago. Internal blame consumes you. I had wasted too much time.
Liana raced up and yanked my pant leg. “Grandpa, read me a story?”
I requested permission from Nate. He nodded.
Old picture book on the shelf—probably left by previous renter. I read to her in a voice I didn’t realize I still possessed, and she cuddled up next to me like we’d always known each other.
An hour later, Liana was sleeping on the couch with her bunny under her chin when Nate left.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
I glimpsed his boyhood self when he grinned. She got that from her mom.”
They followed me to the door. Nate turned before leaving. Next Sunday, we’re having supper at my house. Liana wants you.”
I blinked. You sure?
His eyes were fixed on mine. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
I watched them down the porch steps with a peculiar fullness in my chest. It was like receiving something I didn’t know I needed. Not simply forgiveness. But future.
Nate turned back before reaching the automobile.
“Oh, and Dad?” he called.
“Yeah?”
“I never told you… I carried that photo in my wallet. Even after trial. To remember you before all that. I temporarily forgot.”
He did not await my reply. Took off at nightfall in the automobile.
I returned inside, closed the door, and sat quietly. It was lighter now. It felt tranquil.
After years, I finally had something to anticipate.
Some scars heal with honesty and a fresh start, not time.
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