Page 260 of Disarm
The silence stretches. Mom squeezes my hand and then stands. “I’m going to go find Miggy,” she says, giving Dad a look that says, “Behave or die.”
She kisses my forehead again and slips out.
The room shrinks.
My father drags the chair closer but doesn’t sit until I nod. He looks older than he did even two days ago, like the last forty-eight hours sandblasted him.
“I—” He stops, swallows, and tries again. “I don’t really have words big enough for this,” he says. “But I need you to hear me say… I’m sorry.”
My throat tightens. “For… telling me?” I ask. “About him?”
“For… all of it,” he says, the words sounding like they cost him. “For not seeing how bad it was. For thinking news like that would be… I don’t know. Motivating? Freeing?. For every time I minimized or rationalized what you lived through and what it still does to you.”
The rawness in his voice hits me sideways.
“I’m the adult,” he says. “I have been this whole time. I should’ve been the one with the bigger perspective. Instead, I kept asking you to think of my comfort, my reputation, my… my career, while you were just trying to stay on the planet.”
The image of him at the restaurant, telling us we couldn’t hold hands in public, flashes in my mind. The look on his face. The way Miguel squared up. The way my insides collapsed.
“Yeah,” I say, because there’s no point pretending that didn’t land like a body blow.
He nods, like he expected that. “I can’t undo any of that,” he says. “I can’t rewrite your childhood or your adolescence. What I can do is… move differently from here. That might mean stepping closer. It might mean stepping back if that’s what you need. If my presence is… part of the pressure.”
Panic stabs through the haze. “I don’t… want you gone,” I blurt, surprising myself with how fast it comes out. “I just… I don’t know how to have you close without feeling like I’m always one misstep away from losing you.”
He looks like I hit him and hugged him at the same time.
“That’s… fair,” he says quietly. “And that’s on me to change. Not on you to overperform.” He scratches at his beard. “I’m going to do whatever the professionals recommend. If they say you need inpatient, I’ll help coordinate. If they say I’m a stressor, I’ll limit contact until you say otherwise. If you want me there in family sessions, I’ll come and shut up and listen. If you don’t, I’ll stay the hell out of the room.”
The vulnerability in his tone is so unfamiliar it makes my head spin. “I don’t know what I want yet,” I admit. “I feel like someone took my brain out, stomped on it, and put it back in wrong.”
He huffs out a broken laugh. “That’s valid,” he says. “You don’t have to know today. Or tomorrow. I’m… here. In whatever way you’ll have me.”
Those words loosen something tight in my chest.
“You and Miguel,” I say. “And Mom. And Dr. K. It feels like… everyone’s… repositioning around me. I don’t—” I swallow. “—I don’t want to break everyone.”
“You’re not breaking us,” he says firmly. “We’re adjusting. There’s a difference.”
Dad stands slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to move.
“Can I…?” He nods toward my shoulder.
It takes me a second to realize he’s asking if he can touch me.
I nod.
Fuck… Don’t cry.
He steps closer and puts a hand, big and careful, on my shoulder. The weight is light, like he’s afraid to press too hard. “I love you,” he says, voice rough. “I haven’t said that nearly enough in your life. I should have. I will now, whether it makes you uncomfortable or not.”
I huff a laugh that hurts my throat. “Okay,” I say. “Deal.”
He squeezes once, then lets go and retreats, giving me space to breathe.
“I’m going to go harass the nurses for more information,” he says, slipping lawyer mode back on like a jacket. “Rest. You’re not missing anything out here except bad coffee and your mother threatening to feed the entire waiting room.”
He leaves and the room is suddenly too quiet again.
