He coughs weakly, the words spoken almost too much for him, too.
The monitor's beeping speeds up slightly, the only sign that this conversation costs him.
Fuck me. I didn't know my father had a humble bone in his body. I guess death can humble anyone.
"Being a father..." He pauses, drawing a rattling breath. "It's not about the name. Not about the blood. It's about showing up." His eyes find mine again, suddenly clear and sharp. "I didn't."
The words slam into me, harder than any verdict I've ever taken in court. My stomach pitches and my mouthgoes dry in an instant. And in that spinning second, Beckett’s face sears across my vision, those hazel-green eyes, that stubborn little furrow in his brow.
It’s not spoken, but the message is clear as a blade: history is waiting to repeat itself, and I’m standing on the edge of the same cliff my father jumped from.
I'm trembling now, unsure whether it's rage or grief.
Something breaks inside me. It's not forgiveness. I can’t give that. But there's a jagged crack in the wall I’ve built up around me for decades. Shame and heartache crash into each other until I can’t hold them.
My body moves before my mind decides to take action. My legs pump, my lungs burn, and I’m already fleeing the sterile wing to the elevator.
I press the down button several times as I try to catch my breath. All I know in this moment is that I have to get out of here.
By the time the elevator doors open, my pulse is still pounding in my ears. I don’t remember crossing the lobby, only the blast of mild, fall air as I shove outside.
I pull the truck door shut with a hollow thud. My hands shake as I press the ignition, the engine roaring to life like it shares my anger.
The hospital’s glare shrinks in my rearview as I merge back into Palm Beach’s picture-perfect quiet, a town that has no idea it’s holding my ruin inside its whitewashed walls.
Dusk has fallen while I was inside. Appropriate. Everything is darker now.
The words he said repeat in my head, but now they echo with new meaning. Words I hurled at my father. Words Beckett might someday hurl at me.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel until myknuckles ache. I drive without purpose, just needing to move, to outrun the thoughts chasing me.
Being a father is about showing up.
"Shut up," I whisper to my father's ghost, but his words have found their mark.
Five years. Four birthdays. A thousand moments, irretrievable as smoke.
I pound the steering wheel. "Damn it, Janie."
The rage feels good, familiar. Easier than the shame creeping underneath. I blocked her calls. I shut her out. I left her alone while she carried my child, gave birth to my child, and raised my child in a foreign city all alone.
"Being a father isn't about the name. It isn't about the blood. It's about showing up."
A semi blasts past, it's headlights briefly illuminating my face in the rearview. I barely recognize the haunted man staring back.
What happens now? I could demand custody, blow up everything. I'd certainly lose my friendship with my only life-long friend, the closest thing I have to a family, and possibly wreck Blake and Janie's relationship.
Or I could show up quietly. Be the friendly guy at soccer practice. The helpful colleague. See my son without destroying everything else.
Dad.
I whisper the word, testing how it sounds in my mouth. Strange. Foreign. A title I never thought I'd have.
Maybe it’s enough to orbit his life. To be there without ever claiming my place.
But that’s the lie.
I don’t want scraps. I want my son. Every messy, loud, beautiful piece of him. And claiming him means tearing everything else apart.