And the idea of living without her... it choked me. Without her laughter echoing from the kitchen. Without the sound of her brushing her teeth in the other room while humming that off-key song she always liked. Without her hands tangled in mine when the world got too loud. Without her perfume clinging to my shirts long after she'd gone. GOD, her unique scent!
 Without the warmth of her beside me in bed, grounding me, anchoring me—especially when life turned cold.
The absence of her wasn't just silence. It was a scream—constant, echoing, merciless. And every time I tried to breathe, that thought crushed my lungs all over again.
She was home. And I destroyed that. Me and no one else. 

Joseph stepped in closer. He didn't hug me. He didn't offer sympathy I couldn't carry. Instead, he gripped my shoulders with both hands—firm, grounding, impossible to ignore. I looked up, met his eyes. 
"Listen to me," he said. " I know it feels like the end of your world, but maybe not, your life with october, it is her to decide but when it comes to your father, Thomas, I'll be your dad. In all the ways your father never was. I'll show up. I'll be there when it matters, and even when it doesn't. I'll check in, not because I have to, but because I want to know how you're doing. I'll call you out when you're wrong, challenge you when you're slipping, and I'll still be there the next day—no matter what. I'm not promising to be perfect. But I am promising not to leave.
"I'll be the one who cheered on you when you were eight," he continued, quieter now. "The one who saw your drawings and said, 'That's amazing, buddy, draw me another.' The one who taped them to the fridge, not the one who threw them in the trash like your joy was an inconvenience."
I closed my eyes to keep the tears from falling.
"I'll be the one who tells you it's okay to cry when you're twelve and the world feels too big, too loud, too cruel. When you start to think something's wrong with you for feeling too much. For caring too deeply."
Joseph's voice softened, but the conviction in it only grew.
"I'll be the one who reminds you at seventeen—when everything in you is screaming that love makes you weak—that you're not broken. That wanting to be loved isn't weakness. That tenderness doesn't make you soft. It makes you human. It makes you strong."
My throat tightened, something like a sob trying to crawl out of my chest.
"And I will be the one to remind you, as an adult, that it is not only okay—but sometimes necessary—to start over. To begin again, even when it feels impossible. I'll remind you that you are not defined by the pain of your past or the wounds left by an abusive childhood. You have the right to rebuild yourself, piece by piece, from the ashes of everything that tried to break you.
You can choose to become someone new—someone who is not shaped by fear or silence, but by strength and self-awareness. I'll be there to help you learn how to recognize your own emotions, to name them without shame, and to express them with clarity and courage. Because healing isn't about forgetting what happened; it's about learning how to live beyond it, and knowing you don't have to do that alone."
"But October?" His voice shifted—harder now, more resolute—but not cruel. It was the kind of tone that left no room for argument. "She's my princess. My blood. My priority. I've watched her hurt, and I've held her through it. So I don't care how sorry you are, or how broken you feel, or how much you wish you could turn back time. None of that matters now."
He stepped closer, eyes locked on mine, unwavering. "You'll do what she wants. Not what you want. Not what you think is right. She decides. If she gives you a chance to fix it, you'll move heaven and hell to make it right. You'll prove yourself every day, in every way, until she says you've done enough. And if she doesn't want that—if she tells you to walk away—then you will. No second chances. No arguments. No unfinished goodbyes. You'll respect her choice, even if it kills you."