The clinical way he describes it—reducing everything Theo and I are to each other into something crude and pornographic—makes bile rise in my throat.
“Dad—”
“Don’tDadme.” His voice hardens, losing even the pretence of civility. “I raised you better than that. Your mother raised you better than that, God rest her soul. She’d be ashamed of what you’ve become.”
The mention of my mother—weaponizing her memory against me—feels like a knife sliding between my ribs. “I’m thirty-eight years old.”
“You’re a faggot.”
The word lands like a physical blow. Not shouted. Not spat with anger. Just stated as fact, cold and clinical, like he’s identified a bird through binoculars. The detachment is somehow worse than rage would have been.
“I don’t know how I missed it all these years. I should have seen the signs. The way you used to—” He stops himself. Starts again, his voice even colder. “Don’t call this number. Don’t write. Don’t show up at my door. I don’t want to hear from you ever again. As far as I’m concerned, my son died with his mother sixteen years ago. At least I got to bury her with dignity.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen. My hand is shaking, and I don’t realize it until I see the phone trembling in my grip. The room feels too small suddenly, the air too thick. Theo is watching me, his body still, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands have curled into fists at his sides.
“How much did you hear?” My voice sounds strange to my own ears—distant, like it’s coming from underwater.
“Most of it.” Theo’s response is gentle, careful.
I try to swallow, but there’s something climbing up the back of my throat that I haven’t felt in fifteen years. Something hot and sharp and utterly humiliating. My vision blurs at the edges.
“He hasn’t called me in thirteen years.” The words come out broken, my voice cracking on the numbers. “Thirteen fucking years. Not once. Not when I blew out my knee. Not when I opened the gym. Not when—” My breath hitches. “And the first time he picks up the phone, thefirst time, it’s to tell me I’m dead to him.”
The first tear escapes before I can stop it, hot against my cheek. Then another. Then I can’t hold them back anymore.
My face crumples. A sob tears from my chest—raw and ugly and completely beyond my control. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to physically push the tears back in, but they keep coming. My shoulders shake with the force of holding it in, of trying not to completely break apart.
“Fuck,” I gasp, the word dissolving into another sob. “Fuck, I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t.” Theo’s there suddenly, his hands on my face, gently pulling my palms away from my eyes. “Don’t you dare apologize for this.”
But I can’t stop. Can’t control it. Thirteen years of silence, of wondering if my father ever thought about me, if he missed me even a fraction of how much I missed him—all of it crashes over me at once. The hope I didn’t even know I’d been carrying, that maybe one day he’d call and we’d find our way back to each other, dies in my chest with such finality that I feel like I can’t breathe.
Theo pulls me against him, his arms wrapping tight around my shaking body. He doesn’t try to shush me or tell me it’ll be okay. He just holds me while I fall apart, his hand moving in slow circles on my back.
“I thought—” I choke out between sobs. “I thought maybe one day he’d—that we could?—”
“I know, Victor. I know.”
Time becomes meaningless. Could be minutes or hours that I stand there, breaking down in Theo’s arms in my gym office, where I’ve always been so careful to maintain control. Where I’ve built my reputation on being unshakeable.
Eventually, the sobs subside into ragged breathing. My face feels swollen, my eyes burning. Shame starts to creep in at the edges—shame at falling apart, at being this vulnerable, at letting my father reduce me to this even after all these years.
Theo seems to sense the shift. His hands move to frame my face, tilting it up so I have to look at him. His own eyes are wet, I realize—he’s been crying with me.
“Your father is wrong,” he says fiercely, his thumbs wiping away the tears still clinging to my cheeks. “About all of it. You hear me? He’s fucking wrong.”
I try to look away, but his grip tightens, keeping me there.
“You are not dead to anyone who matters,” Theo continues, his voice breaking slightly. “You’re here. You’re alive. You’re building something beautiful. And I—” His voice cracks. “I love you so much, Victor. So fucking much.”
The words hit something deep in my chest. I close my eyes, leaning into his touch.
“I’m sorry,” Theo whispers. “I’m so sorry he did that to you.”
“Don’t be.” The words come out hoarse.