“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
He laughed weakly.
“All of it.”
Then his eyes returned to me.
“I know I don’t deserve the word.”
“What word?”
His breathing grew shallow.
“Dad.”
I knelt beside him.
For thirty-two years, I had imagined my father as a blank space.
A mystery.
Now I had him.
Broken.
Manipulative.
Guilty.
And human.
I took his hand.
“You don’t.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“But you
can earn something better if you survive.”
His eyes filled.
“What?”
“A chance.”
