They didn’t believe me when I told the truth. Now I live with that.
I never sent them. I just stacked the letters in a shoe box and left them in my desk drawer.
That night, sitting in my workshop checking invoices, I looked around: the tools, the trucks, the company name painted on the walls, all built with my own hands.
Everything I lost was gone forever. But everything I built, no one could take away from me.
For the first time in years, I felt erased. I felt written again. Not by them, but by me.
But peace doesn’t stay silent for long. Once the truth about Ape spread through the town, the same people who had suddenly thrown me out remembered that I existed.
It started with a knock on my office door one afternoon. I was fixing a thermostat unit on the desk when I heard someone calling my name.
—Jackson.
I froze. I turned around and there she was, my mother. She looked smaller, older, as if someone had stolen her life. She was holding reeds at the root and her hands were trembling as she held a refractory covered with aluminum foil.
—I made your favorite —he said in a low voice—. Chicken with rice. You loved it.
For a second I couldn’t move. The smell hit me and made my stomach churn. I remembered the last time I had cooked it. The night before everything exploded.
I stood up slowly.
—Why are you here?
Her eyes filled with tears.
—I just want to see you. To tell you I’m sorry. We were wrong. He lied. We already know.
I leaned against the counter.
—You’re 10 years late.
He cleaned his nose.
—I didn’t know what to believe then. She was crying and your father…
I interrupted her.
—You didn’t even ask me. You didn’t let me speak. You kicked me out and told me to call again.
He took a step towards me.
—Please, Jack…
“Don’t call me that,” I blurted out. “You’ve lost that right.”
She hunched over as if the words had physically struck her. I pointed to the door.
—You should leave.
He hesitated, leaving the refractory dish on the counter.
—At least eat it, please.
I looked at him.
—Throw it away on your way out.
When the door closed behind her, I felt nothing. Neither eye, nor sadness, only nothing.
Two days later my father appeared. I was on duty when I saw him waiting for me outside the office, leaning against his truck as if he owned the place. He smiled as if we had only had a formal discussion years before.
—Hello, son.
I didn’t reply.
“You’ve done well,” he said, looking around. “Business, trucks, employees. I’m proud of you.”
—Go to hell —I said.
He clenched his jaw.
—Your mother isn’t well. She cries every day. I thought maybe if we all sat down, we’d clear the air…
Clean the air? I almost laughed.
—You hit me and threw me out. You left me homeless. You cleared the air that night when you told me I wasn’t your son.
He sighed, frustrated.
—He was angry. You have to understand, it was a different time. Things looked bad.
—So you struck first. Ask questions later? Never.
His face hardened.
—You don’t have to keep clinging to hatred, son.
I took out the phone.
—I’m not clinging to hate. I’m clinging to self-respect.
He frowned.
—What are you…?
Αpreté υп botóп.
—Security. I have someone invading property at the entrance. A big man with a red jacket.
Sυ expresióп cambió al iпstaпte.
—Are you calling your own father for security?
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