Wyatt saw his father’s position and let out a bitter laugh.
“Of course. Now he’s the savior. After disappearing for years.”
Harrison accepted the blow without defending himself.
“No,” he said. “I’m a man who arrived late. But I’m here now.”
That phrase left the kitchen feeling empty inside.
Wyatt felt it. So did I.
Because it was true. He arrived late. I arrived late too. We had both let guilt, distance, and excuses fill a void that Wyatt turned into permission.
None of that justified what he did.
But it did explain why the morning had that thick taste, like reheated coffee and old loss.
Wyatt ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the back door. He looked at the stairs. He looked at the papers. He wanted to find a crack.
There wasn’t one.
“How much time do I have?” he finally asked.
Harrison looked at his watch.
“You have until ten to leave with the essentials. If you want us to organize the rest later, we’ll do it another way. But you’re not sleeping here tonight.”
I didn’t say anything. Not because I doubted it.
Because if I spoke, perhaps my voice would break.
Wyatt climbed the stairs again without running. No slamming door this time. Each step sounded different. Less commanding. Heavier.
I waited until I heard her bedroom door close before sitting down.
My legs were trembling.
Harrison pushed my cup towards me.
“Take a sip,” he said.
