…falling to his knees as sobs wracked his chest. For a moment, all I could do was stand there, stunned by the sheer vulnerability of the man who once ruled our home with iron certainty.
Lucas moved quietly, taking the baby into the other room. I crouched beside my father, placing a hand on his back, feeling the tremble of years’ worth of guilt pour out of him.
“I missed everything,” he whispered. “Their first steps. Their first words. I wasn’t there. And I can never get that back.”
A lump swelled in my throat. “You can’t go back, Dad. But you can start now.”
He looked up at me then—eyes searching, desperate. “If you’ll let me.”
That’s when I knew: this wasn’t about pride anymore. This was about healing. About love. About three tiny lives that had changed everything.
I nodded, tears slipping silently down my cheeks. “Then come meet your grandchildren.”
And just like that, we began again. Not with perfection. Not with all wounds erased. But with hope.
Because sometimes, the hardest goodbyes lead us to the most beautiful second chances.
