“Did Mom ever love me?”
Andrew answered as honestly as he could.
“I think she loved the idea of being your mother. But real love protects. Real love tells the truth. She didn’t know how to do that.”
Harry sat with that for a while.
Then he asked, “Do you?”
Andrew looked at his son.
“Yes,” he said. “Every day. No matter what.”
Six months after sentencing, they sat together on a dock at sunset.
The lake was gold and still.
Harry dangled his feet over the edge and watched the water move around his shoes.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he said.
Andrew’s throat tightened.
“I never did.”
Two years later, they rented a cabin in northern Wisconsin for a week.
They fished.
They hiked.
They played cards under a yellow porch light.
Harry was twelve then, taller and stronger, still carrying scars no one else could see but laughing more often.
On the last night, they built a fire outside.
Harry poked at the embers with a stick.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“What if I turn out like her?”
Andrew took his time answering.
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re worried about it,” Andrew said. “People who choose selfishness usually don’t ask whether they’re hurting others. You ask. That matters.”
Harry leaned against his shoulder.
“What are you teaching me, then?”
“That truth matters even when it costs you. That love means sacrifice. That people are worth more than money, comfort, or appearances.”
Harry looked into the fire.
“I’m not scared like I used to be.”
Andrew put an arm around him.
“That’s good.”
“I still have bad dreams sometimes.”
