On Father’s Day, six months after the lakehouse, Richard invited me to lunch, just the two of us. For the first time, I accepted. We met at a local diner, neutral territory. It was awkward at first, but conversation eventually found its way through the silence. I’m proud of you, he said. For what, I asked. For standing up for yourself, he said. For not backing down. I taught you to be a man. I just didn’t think you’d use it against me. He laughed at that, self deprecating, not bitter. I didn’t do it against you, I told him. I did it for me. I know, he said. Took me six months to understand that fully. We ate in comfortable silence after that. For the first time ever, Richard paid the check without turning it into a performance. Just a father taking care of his son. Can we do this again next month, he asked. Yeah, I said. Next month.
Labor Day weekend, one year later, I stood at a different lakehouse entirely, this one rented with friends rather than family. Emma stood beside me on the deck while five musician friends grilled and laughed inside. I held my Martin D-18 and played Underwater, the instrumental I’d written after everything that happened. When I finished, they applauded, and Emma kissed my cheek. That was beautiful, she said. My phone buzzed. Barbara. Thinking of you today. Miss you. I replied, miss you too, Mom. Small progress, one careful step at a time.
