But she didn’t.
“I just wanted to see you,” she said quietly. “And Lucas.”
I hesitated, then shook my head.
“Not today.”
Her face crumpled.
“Please, Felix. He’s still your father. He’s not well.”
That caught my attention.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been having panic attacks,” she said, voice trembling. “Barely sleeping. The stress, the shame, it’s breaking him. He doesn’t talk to anyone. Just sits in the den staring at the floor.”
I stayed silent, processing that.
There was a time when hearing that would have filled me with guilt or pity or maybe even a desire to fix things.
But not now.
Because for the first time, I realized something profound.
His suffering didn’t heal anything.
It didn’t erase what he did or what he said.
It didn’t make him a different person.
It was just the echo of his own choices.
