My father froze. His eyes shifted from the picture… to my son… to me sitting in the car. His face aged in seconds. I saw regret wash over him like a wave too strong to fight.
My son continued, “You don’t have to be in my life. But you hurt my mom. And she still became everything I ever needed. I just wanted you to see what you lost.”
He handed him the photo.
My father’s hand shook as he took it. For the first time in my life, I saw his eyes fill with tears.
“I… I was wrong,” he whispered. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought pushing her away would protect her. But I only broke the person who loved me the most.”
My son looked at him—not with hatred, but with the calm strength of someone who had already survived more than an eighteen-year-old should.
“You can apologize to her,” he said. “Not to me.”
