That afternoon, I drove us to a house I hadn’t seen in almost twenty years. The driveway was still cracked, just as I remembered. The porch light still hummed softly, even in broad daylight.
Liam got out of the car with a small box in his hands. I stayed inside, my palms sweating on the steering wheel.
Hands holding the steering wheel | Source: Pexels
He knocked twice.
My dad opened the door a few seconds later. From the car, I could see he didn’t immediately recognize Liam—how could he? As far as I knew, he’d never laid eyes on his grandson.
But Liam looked like me. And I looked like my dad.
I knew it would only take him a few seconds and that he would know who was standing on his porch.
My father looked older, more frail than I remembered, but no less proud. He was no less cold.
An older man opens a door and talks to a younger man | Source: Midjourney
Liam pulled out a box.
“Please,” he said calmly. “You can celebrate my birthday with this.”
My father looked confused, but he took the box, narrowing his eyes as he stared into Liam’s face. I saw a spark of surprise as he recognized—when he realized he was looking at his grandson.
It appeared quickly, suddenly, and unpredictably… and then disappeared just as quickly, swallowed up by the cold, stoic expression I had always known.
A young man gives an older man a box of cakes | Source: Midjourney
“I forgive you,” Liam continued. “For what you did to me. And to my mother.”
