October, The Odd Ones

I opened the door to Thomas.

He stood there, looking older somehow — not in years, but in wear. Like time had moved differently for him since everything broke apart. He had files in hand, gripping them like they were both a shield and a confession. For a while, we just sat in the quiet — not hostile, but cautious. Like standing on a frozen lake, not knowing if the ice beneath us would hold.

"I want to start by apologizing," he said finally, his voice steady, but edged with a weight that had taken years to accumulate. "For everything. I was wrong. I hurt you.""

My breath caught before I could answer. My throat tightened, that familiar burn rising fast behind my eyes. I hated how quickly my body remembered the pain, even before my mind could process the words. The nights I cried alone in bed, wondering what I'd done wrong. The mornings I pretended to be okay because the kids were watching. The conversations that turned cold halfway through, like someone had flipped a switch. The endless days I waited for him to see me—not just look at me, but see me.

His lips parted just slightly, like he wasn't sure whether to smile or cry. There were tears in his eyes now, raw and unhidden, and somehow that made it harder to look at him, not easier.

"I wish I had cherished your love," he said, voice breaking. "But I didn't. I let the weight of my own bullshit crush it. Crush you. I failed you. I took you for granted and I will pay the price for that. I deserve to, and ... I.... emotionally cheated."

I closed my eyes, feeling the pain of his much-awaited admission wash over me like a wave I'd braced for — but still wasn't ready for.

"Even now, saying that feels like swallowing broken glass. I denied it over and over. I twisted myself into knots trying to justify my actions — even argued with my therapist, trying to convince him that it couldn't be that. That I couldn't be that person. Because I didn't love Laura. I didn't even come close to feeling love. There was no passion, no desire to leave you, no dreams of a life with her. So how... how could that be betrayal?

But then my therapist explained it. Slowly. Gently. And painfully. What an emotional affair actually is — not in name, but in truth. It's not about love. It's about intimacy that doesn't belong where you put it. It's the quiet messages. The sharing of parts of yourself that should be sacred to your partner. It's the validation you seek elsewhere. The comfort. The confiding. The comparing. The escape.

And suddenly, it was like I was watching a movie of myself — all the things I'd said, the texts, the secrets, the moments I kept from you — and I felt sick. Because I saw it. Not just what I did... but who I became. And yeah. I'm ashamed. Deeply ashamed. Because no matter how I spin it, part of it was an emotional affair as he told me. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Enough to cross a line. Enough to wound you. Enough to make you question everything you believed about us. About me.

"He said: "Emotional affairs aren't about love. They're about emotional displacement." And that line — it shattered me. Because I really thought I hadn't crossed that boundary. I convinced myself I was loyal because there was no physical betrayal, no romance.

But betrayal isn't always about sex or love. Sometimes, it's about where you invest your heart — the parts of you that should only belong to the person you committed to. And I gave parts of me to someone else. And I kept them from you. So no... I wasn't "safe" from that label. I thought I was. I thought I could walk the edge without falling. But I wasn't walking a line — I had already crossed it.

And now here I am. Looking at the wreckage. Looking at you, the person I vowed to honor and protect — and seeing how deeply I hurt you."

"You really did, Thomas," I said, my voice barely holding steady, the weight of everything pressing against my chest. My eyes burned, vision blurring with unshed tears. "You hurt me... deeply."

He didn't flinch. He just stood there, hands at his sides, like he was letting the words land where they may. Like he knew he deserved each one.

"I know," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "And I am forever sorry."

There was no defense in his tone. No justification. Just raw, tired regret.

"I don't expect forgiveness," he continued, eyes locked on mine, and for once, I could see the honesty behind them. "I know I don't have the right to ask for it—not after everything. It's a sad thing, isn't it? To finally wake up and realize how much damage you've done... only to find it's far too late."

He glanced down for a moment, swallowed hard.

"I wish I could say it was just this past year, just that betrayal, but we both know better. It was years, October. Years of making you feel small, unheard. Years of standing beside you without really standing with you. And then I shattered what little trust remained."

"I will never get those years back," he said. "I know that. And I will never get you back the way I had you. But if all I can do now is make space for your healing, build something for you, be better for the kids—even if it's from a distance—I'll do it. I swear I'll do it."

He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick envelope, held it with both hands as though it might shatter.

"So... here it is."

The air shifted, like something sacred was about to pass between us.

He handed me the papers. My heart knew what they were before my eyes even read the words.

"What are these?" I asked, though my voice barely made it past my throat. It cracked like a branch splitting under weight.

"Divorce papers," he said, steady but soft. "Signed by me. All that's missing is your signature."

For a moment, everything around us seemed to go silent — like the world paused to let the words settle in my chest. Then he added, quickly — almost too quickly —

 "I don't want that." His voice wavered, "But I know," he continued, " that you do. And if it is still what you want, I won't fight you. I won't beg or manipulate or make it harder than it already is. You've been through enough."

He looked down, swallowing hard. "So... I'm giving you that choice. Fully. Freely."

I stared at the papers in my hands like they were burning. "Okay... what's the rest of it?" I asked, gesturing toward the folder.

He opened it, carefully sliding out another set of papers.

"These," he said, "are half of my shares in the company. They're in your name now."

"What?" I said, stunned.

"The other half," he continued, "are for the kids. Each will get their portion when they turn 22. I've already set it up. Legal and final. No strings."

I stared at him, the documents still in my hands, their weight suddenly heavier than paper should feel. It wasn't just legal language or numbers—this was something else. A shift. A quiet reckoning. My voice barely found its way out.

"Why are you doing this?"

He looked up at me, and for once, he didn't flinch. His voice came steady, but quiet. "Because you supported me. Because I was too proud—too blind, honestly—to admit how much of what I built was only possible because of you."

He took a step closer, but not too close. Just enough for his voice to drop lower, more intimate, more honest.

"You were the one who held everything together. The house, the kids, me. I was running toward success like it was some kind of finish line, and you were the one picking up everything I dropped along the way. You sacrificed your time, your energy, your peace. Your dreams."

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."

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."