I swallowed hard. The words hit deeper than I expected. Not because they were new—but because they were finally spoken out loud.
He went on, his voice thickening.
"You gave up the career you wanted. Gave up your degree. Your late nights turned into sleepless nights with crying babies and grocery lists and taking care of everyone but yourself. And the worst part? I let you. I let you do it, and I told myself that was just how things worked."
He looked at me, really looked, like he was trying to memorize the truth he'd ignored for years.
"I was too busy working. Too busy proving something to a man who never even gave me the time of day. And all the while, you were there—focusing on our family, loving our children, loving me—without asking for anything back."
My throat clenched. I hadn't cried yet, not really, but I felt it building again. The ache in my chest, the grief for all the years I'd silently carried what he was only now beginning to see.
" It's what you earned. It's yours, whether you stay or walk away. You've already paid for it a hundred times over. I just... finally woke up to the debt."
I looked down at the envelope, then back at him. My fingers trembled as I clutched the papers, and for a moment, I didn't know what to say. 
He shifted on his feet, running a hand through his hair as if trying to pull the words straight from his scalp. And then he said it—quietly at first, but clearly:
""And let's be frank... I never wanted to be CEO of my father's company."
I looked up at him, caught off guard. Those words — they didn't sound like him. Not the version I'd known for years. Not the man who'd buried himself in work and boardrooms and late-night calls.
He exhaled, his shoulders sinking a little. Like just saying it out loud had taken something out of him.
"I did it for him," he continued, voice flat but filled with something raw and unfinished. "Studied economics, business, all of it, because that's what he expected. I mapped out my whole life on a blueprint he handed me. Took the job, wore the suit, smiled at the meetings — all to prove I could carry his legacy. To look like him. To be the man he always talked about being."
He paused, looking somewhere distant, eyes cloudy with old grief.
"I worked like hell to impress him. Every damn day. Even when he barely looked up from his desk. I told myself if I just did better, climbed higher, sacrificed more — he'd finally turn around and say he was proud of me. That I'd earned it. His respect. His love. Something."
He laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. More like a sad exhale twisted into something resembling humor.
"But I think it's clear now — I'm not cut out for it. Not really. I don't thrive in it. I survive it. And honestly?" He met my eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw him. Not the polished image, not the nameplate on the office door — just the man underneath. "I actually... hate it."
His voice cracked slightly on that last word.
"I don't know what I'm going to do next," he admitted. "I really don't. But I know what I want to do."
He took a deep breath, and this time, there was strength in it. A trembling, growing kind of strength — the kind that comes from admitting you've been lost.
"I want to work on myself. Not as some executive or someone chasing approval that may never come. I want to be a better man. A better father. I want to learn how to show up for people — really show up. With presence, not just money. With effort, not just obligation. And I know I've failed you, more than once, and I can't change the past. Even with the divorce,  I still want to be part of this family. Even if it's a different version. Even if it's harder and messier than before. I want to be someone our kids can be proud of — someone who doesn't just carry a legacy, but builds one. With love. With presence. With truth."