My hands trembled as I held the documents. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air felt thick with everything unsaid, the weight of our shared hi온라인카지노게임 pressing in from all sides. 
I finally managed to speak. "That's... too much, Thomas. I can't take all of this. The money. The shares. It's—"
"You can," he said, cutting in softly, but with certainty. His voice had that quiet gravity that only shows up when someone is speaking from the deepest part of themselves. "And you will."
He paused, swallowing hard. "I don't want you to feel like money is a reason to stay stuck, or small, or scared. You can do whatever you want — anything. Start fresh. Take space. Build something new, or just rest for a while. Whatever it is... I want you to feel free to live your life now."
His voice cracked, and his expression wavered as he added, "I don't expect anything in return for that. No kindness, no forgiveness, no second chance. This isn't about guilt, or trying to earn my way back. It's about giving back what I should've always shared — your autonomy. Your choices. Your peace."
He looked down for a moment, then back up, and his voice dropped to almost a whisper. "If there's anything I want to see, it's you happy. After all the pain I've caused. After all the misery you carried in silence while I was too wrapped up in my own noise to hear it. You deserve happiness. Even if it's without me."
A long silence passed between us, thick with emotion. Then, with a visible shift in his posture — heavier, almost reluctant — he added, "And there's... one more thing."
My stomach tightened.
"The reason your dad and I would disappear from time to time," he began,"I actually asked him one day... if there was a place. A beautiful place — something from your childhood. Somewhere you loved. Not a grand destination, just something that meant something to you."
I watched him closely now, my heart beginning to race.
"And he told me about that little house," he said, his lips lifting into the faintest smile. "The one you used to visit for vacations, out in the country but never very far. You mentioned it once — the old porch swing, the way the sun hit the fields in the late afternoon. The way the air smelled different there, like clean earth and memory."
He shifted, looking suddenly younger, unsure. "So... we drove out there. Just to see it. And it took some convincing — a lot, actually — but I bought it. The house. And the land next to it."
My breath caught in my throat.
"It was a mess," he said with a light chuckle, eyes softening. "Run down, half-forgotten, windows cracked, paint peeling. But your dad... he said something I didn't expect. He told me, 'Don't hire it out. Don't take the easy route. Get your hands dirty. Fix it. Build something with your own two hands. You need that.'"
He looked at me, more raw than I'd ever seen him. "So we did. Every time we 'disappeared,' we were out there. Fixing siding. Repairing floorboards. Repainting shutters. Clearing out the weeds. Replacing the roof. Sometimes we'd fight like hell about how to do something, and sometimes we'd just sit on the porch with beers and talk about you. About what you deserved. About how badly I'd failed you, how I may have had abusive parents but I did the same to you, whether i was aware of it or not — and how I should now respect what you want and need from me"
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped, thick with feeling.
"But I didn't just want to fix the house. I wanted to plant something too. To grow something. So I turned the land into a garden."
He looked nervous, like he wasn't sure if it was the right choice. "I remembered how you always lit candles before bed, how you'd stop mid-walk just to breathe in a hedge of blooming jasmine, or lavender, or roses. You told me once the right scent could change your entire day. That it could shift your whole mood, anchor you, bring you peace."
His eyes were glistening now. "So I tried to recreate that. I planted rows of lavender. Wild roses. Jasmine near the front so the scent greets you as soon as you arrive. Peonies. Sweet alyssum. Gardenia. Even orange blossom and wisteria climbing the trellises. Different flowers for different seasons, different moods. I wanted to make something living. Something for you."
He exhaled slowly, hands trembling slightly. "You can go there whenever you want. You don't have to ask me. I had the deed written in your name."
Tears stung my eyes.
"You can host parties there, take the kids, escape for a weekend, or just... be alone. It's yours. A sanctuary. A quiet place to feel whatever you need to feel."
He looked down, then slowly lifted his eyes back to mine, and when he spoke again, his voice was thin — raw at the edges, like something barely holding itself together.
"I know I can't erase what I did," he said, every word shaped by regret. "There's no version of this where I undo the hurt, he inhaled shakily, and then said the hardest part.
"Maybe this place I built just becomes your space to heal... without me. Maybe that's what has to happen now. And if that's the case, I will carry that. Quietly. Without resentment. Because I caused this fracture. And I won't pretend I didn't."
There was a long silence before he added, softer than before, "I am sorry. For all of it.  For the things I said and did, and more for the things I didn't."
He paused again, barely whispering now. "But I hope... even if it's far down the road, even if I never know it... I hope that garden gives you something. A kind of peace. A breath. A reminder that somewhere, amidst the brokenness, something beautiful was still planted. And it grows. And it blooms. Even now."