October, The Odd Ones

I finally filed for a restraining order against Laura. Her lawyer was already frothing at the mouth by the time we left the courthouse. Apparently, this move had thrown their entire narrative into chaos. Good. Let them scramble. Let them feel even a fraction of the fear, the exhaustion, the sheer erosion of self she had dragged me through. If this weakened their case, all the better. For once, I wasn't thinking like a son or a shield, I was thinking like someone who deserved peace.

I couldn't care less about their reactions. Then, just a few days later, the news broke, the one we'd all been dreading, even though we saw it coming. My father was officially out on bail. The charges weren't disappearing this time. Fraud. Tax evasion. Embezzlement. And whatever new fire Laura's dramatic little deposition had added to the mix. Maybe for the first time in his life, the system wasn't folding neatly around him. Maybe the rot had finally spread too far, even for him to cover.

The trial date was set. His name, once gold-embossed and whispered with reverence in polished halls, was now something to be avoided, muttered only behind closed doors. I'd already decided I would go. I'd made the decision knowing I needed to look him in the eye, one last time, for myself, not for him.

And then, as if on cue, the message from my lawyer arrived: "He wants to see you."

Of course he did. He always did when things started slipping through his fingers. It wasn't even surprising anymore. That twisted part of him that still believed he could call, and I'd come. Not because he deserved it but because some part of me, the part he raised, the part he conditioned, still flinched when his name lit up my screen.

He knew I'd come. He counted on it. Not out of love. That was long gone but out of something deeper. Older. The leftover muscle memory of being his son. Of being the one who held his secrets, covered his tracks, absorbed his silence and his rage like a sponge and called it loyalty.

I hated how automatic it still felt, how the ache in my chest came not from the idea of seeing him, but from knowing I still didn't know how to say no and maybe that was why I said yes. Because somewhere between all the rage and the distance and the trauma, I needed to look him in the eye. I needed to feel nothing. I needed to know that whatever power he had over me was gone. Or going. Or dying, piece by piece, with every court date and every breath I took outside his orbit.

 So I went.

The meeting was set in a downtown legal office, late afternoon. He was already seated when I walked in, alone, for once. No lawyers, no assistants. Just him, hunched slightly over the long oak table. His suit looked expensive but wrinkled. His face was grayer than I remembered, eyes dimmer, like someone had finally turned down the volume on his ego.

For the first time in my life, he looked... old. Not weak, exactly, but dulled. Like power had been drained from his bones and left him hollow. I sat down across from him, slowly. Not out of fear, but because I needed the pause. I needed the breath. My hands curled into fists beneath the table to stop them from trembling.

We stared at each other for a long moment. He looked at me like he always had, no warmth or apology, only calculation.

"You came," he finally said, his voice raspier than I expected. Then, with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, he added, " I knew you would."

I exhaled hard. "I don't even know why I came," I started, my voice rough. "Maybe because for years, I used to picture this moment. Me, finally saying everything I've never said and you..what? Apologizing? Explaining? I don't even know what I wanted anymore. Closure, maybe but it's not real, is it?"

He didn't move. So I let it spill, all of it.

"You spent my whole life reminding me what a failure I was. When I brought home good grades, you called them average. When I won that regional competition, you said it didn't count because it wasn't national. You mocked me when I cried, told me to man up when I was twelve and Mom left the room crying because you'd said something vile. You made me believe that kindness was weakness, that vulnerability was something to be ashamed of."

I leaned forward, hands clenched on the table. "You made me hate myself before I even understood who I was."

His jaw flexed, just barely, but he said nothing. I kept going.

"You turned me into someone I could barely look at in the mirror. I lied to my wife, convinced myself that what I did at work had nothing to do with who I was at home but it wasn't separate. It never was. I tried to be tough and determined because every time I tried to be soft, your voice in my head screamed that I was pathetic."

My throat burned.

"You hit me. You told me it was discipline. You humiliated me and called it 'character building.' I was a kid and you..." I swallowed the thickness in my throat. "You were the first man I ever wanted to love me and you made me think I had to earn it by breaking myself down."

My voice cracked, just once, but I didn't stop.

"I thought if I worked hard enough, succeeded enough, you'd finally see me. Be proud. But the truth is, you only saw me as a reflection of your own failures. You hated what I was because you hated yourself and when I started becoming something better, someone who tried to be gentle, who tried to feel things..." I shook my head. "You saw that as betrayal."

I stood, then leaned over the table slightly, my voice quieter, but sharper. "You know what's worse? I almost became you. That... that's what keeps me up some nights. You destroyed every part of me that wanted to love you. You made me into a man who almost lost the only good thing in his life, my wife and kids, because I was too busy chasing your approval like a beaten dog."

Still nothing.

"I came here today because I needed to look you in the eye and say this: I'm done. Done waiting for the father I deserved. Done carrying guilt that never belonged to me. You wrecked things in me I'm still trying to rebuild, but you don't get to wreck anything else."

Finally, he looked up. Eyes empty, expression flat.

Then, with the same cold, calculated voice he always used when he wanted to cut straight to the bone, the one that never rose, never needed to, because the venom was always in the precision, he leaned back in his chair like this was all just a dull inconvenience.

"Are you done?"

My whole body stilled.

There it was. That flat, unfeeling tone I knew too well. The one he used when I was a kid and crying too loud. When he dragged my mother's shame through the dirt like sport. When he punished silence as much as he punished words.

He looked at me like I was wasting his time.

"Do you feel better now?" he added, his voice dry as ash. "You got your little speech in. Got to be the wounded son with the righteous rage. You feel like a man now, finally?"

My heart was hammering in my chest, beating so hard I could feel it in my throat, behind my eyes, in the corners of my clenched jaw but I didn't move. I didn't give him the satisfaction of blinking. Not yet.

Then came the chuckle. A soft, brittle sound, sharp as broken glass and just as cutting.

"I thought, naively I admit, you might have actually come here to help me," he said, with a bitter shake of his head, like I had disappointed him. "Stupid, I know but you surprised me, and not in the good way, son."

He said son like it was a joke. Like it tasted bad in his mouth.

"You always were the soft one," he continued. "The weak one. Always crying. Always needing. You were born needy. Christ, you were barely a month old and already exhausting. Clinging to your mother like a tick. You were in the way before you could walk."

I sat there, cold sinking into my bones. Every word hit like a slap, but I didn't look away. And then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the metal table, his voice lowering into something almost intimate, something you'd expect to come with a smile or a gift but instead, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, 

"She should've had that abortion when I told her to. Useless being."

Silence fell like a gunshot.

The breath left my lungs. The world tilted. My body didn't move, but inside, something ruptured. It wasn't shock, not really. He'd said cruel things before. He'd weaponized love and bent it into fear since I was old enough to recognize the way he looked at me.

But this? This was annihilation. This was a hand reaching back into the past, scraping away even the idea that I was ever wanted. My breath stopped. The air turned electric with fury. My hands slammed the table and I was on my feet before I could stop myself.

"You vile, godless piece of shit!" I roared, my voice bouncing off the concrete. He looked smug. Smug. I leaned closer, shaking with rage, "I will never speak your name to my children! I will erase you! You will die alone, rotting in jail, while I go home to the people who love me despite the wreckage left behind."

His eyes flared, just a flicker, but I didn't wait. I turned and walked out, my vision blurred and chest heaving and there, just outside, leaning against the sun-bleached wall, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat—stood Joseph. He looked like he'd been waiting a while. His face was calm, but his eyes carried that sharp, quiet worry only someone who's known you long enough to read between silences can wear.

My footsteps faltered. I hadn't expected him. I hadn't asked him to come but of course he was there. October must've called him. Or Beth. Someone must've known I wouldn't walk out of that building quite whole. Not after what I'd gone in there to face. Joseph pushed off the wall without a word. No dramatic gestures, no drawn-out sympathy. Just met me halfway across the pavement.

I didn't speak either. I couldn't. The moment I reached him, something in me gave out. My fingers twisted into the fabric of his coat and I leaned in, folded, really, against his shoulder. And then I broke, all of it hitting me at once: shame, grief, fury, the endless ache of trying for so long to be okay. My chest convulsed. I couldn't stop shaking.

I broke for the boy who used to sit at the top of the stairs, listening to his parents fight and praying, just once, his dad might come upstairs and hold him.
I broke for the teenager who walked home in silence after football matches, no matter how well he played, because there was never anyone waiting to say "I'm proud of you."
I broke for the man who tried so hard to wear the mask, perfect employee, good son, decent husband, but lived in fear that everyone would see through it and realize he wasn't enough.

Joseph didn't flinch. He just wrapped his arms around me, grounding me like he always had.

His hand moved once, slow across my back. I could hear his heart beating, steady and real. I clung to that sound like a rope pulling me out of a pit I hadn't even realized I was still in. My knees buckled slightly, and he held me tighter. I let it all fall out of me, years of swallowing words, of never being allowed to cry, of mistaking pain for purpose and silence for strength.

Tears soaked into the shoulder of his coat. My breath came in shallow, broken gulps. Because the truth is, my father never broke me. He chipped away at me, day by day, year by year.

But he didn't win. Not really. He left cracks. Deep ones but those cracks didn't ruin me. They made space for light. For people who would stand by the door of a prison and wait. For the kind of love that didn't demand perfection, just honesty. Finally, after a lifetime of pretending I was fine, I was letting someone see the whole damn mess.

I was finally free. 

***

I went back to my appartment and sat alone. That thick, echoing silence that follows confrontation like an unwanted guest. I'd been sitting on the couch in the dark, one leg tucked beneath me, staring at the same spot on the wall as if answers might eventually surface from paint and plaster. My mind felt wrung out, my chest hollow. After seeing both of them, first my mother, then him, something inside me felt scraped raw.

My phone buzzed. Just one message.

October
I know you saw him. Meet me here? Let's change the air.

She sent me a location, and even though I was running on fumes, emotionally wrung out from the week, I decided to go because it was October. My October. No matter how tired I was, no matter how heavy everything felt, when she asks, I'd show up. Every time.

The place was unassuming. A little corner café tucked between a laundromat and a florist, the kind of spot you'd walk past without noticing, but tonight, the windows glowed golden, fogged at the edges, and warm light spilled onto the sidewalk like it was trying to pull me in.

Inside, it smelled like cinnamon and toasted almonds, and the air was humming with soft piano notes that didn't demand anything of you. October was already there, curled into a corner booth, two mugs in front of her.

She looked up, and the smallest smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

"Hi," she said softly. "You made it."

I sat down across from her. The chai smelled like quiet relief, "You remembered I hate coffee," I said, wrapping my hands around the mug.

"Of cours," she replied. "Also, the barista called it 'emotional support in a cup' and I couldn't resist."

I let out a tired laugh, my shoulders easing a little. She watched me for a moment. Her eyes didn't flinch from mine.

"You looked... emptied. After your dad."

I nodded slowly. "He said things meant to cut. The kind of things you spend your whole life trying not to become and then suddenly you're there, face-to-face with it, and you're terrified you inherited it."

She reached across the table and rested her fingers lightly on mine.

"You're nothing like him. I see it every day in the way you love our son. The way you kneel when Jimmy's scared, how you listen to him like every word matters. You speak to him gently—even when you're tired, even when he pushes. That's not a mistake, Thomas. That's who you are. That's love that's been fought for. That's you choosing to be better, choosing to unlearn every cruel thing your father ever tried to carve into you."

My throat tightened. I blinked fast. "That's my goal. To be... unrecognizable to him. To make sure his words, his violence, never live in me. To be the father he never was. I want peace where he left rot."

I could feel the tears pressing hot behind my eyes, but before I could fall into apology, she squeezed my hand.

"Not tonight," she whispered. "Tonight, we celebrate your soft, beautiful rebellion."

I let out a shaky breath. "So... what is this, my emancipation party?"

She grinned. "Exactly. Welcome to your freedom. First course: spiced chai and a woman who still finds you ridiculously hot even when you're emotionally mangled."

I laughed, wiping at the corner of my eye.

"Really?"

"You're very broody," she said with mock seriousness. "It's a whole look. Sad-but-soft works for you."

"You like emotional roadkill. Got it."

"Nope. I like men who heal and who smell like dog shampoo and guilt. It's a niche, but I stand by it."

"I aim to please."

We talked for hours. About Jimmy, about her job mixing scents and memories and how she once created a perfume that made a woman cry because it smelled exactly like her grandmother's porch. I told her about the time Jimmy ran through wet paint and left tiny paw prints on my hoodie, and how I couldn't bring myself to wash it.

When we finally stepped outside, the air was cool and still. She slipped her hand into mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You didn't have to come tonight," I said.

"I know," she said.

I stopped walking, turned to face her. My heart felt swollen with everything I couldn't say fast enough.

"October," I murmured, "I will spend the rest of my life earning your trust and your love. I promise. I won't stop. Not ever."

She looked up at me, eyes glistening, and for once, she didn't say anything. She tilted her face up, kissed me, slow at first, then deeper, and God, it felt like stepping out into the sun after months underground. We kissed like we were younger than we'd ever been—breathless, messy, almost desperate, but then I giggled.

She pulled back a little, surprised by the sound, brows rising. Her expression was a mix of confusion and curiosity, like she didn't know whether to smile yet. "What?"

I reached up, thumb brushing along the soft curve of her cheek. "I'm sorry," I murmured, still grinning like a fool. "It's just..I remembered how we used to make out behind everyone's backs in school. Like we were the masterminds of stealth and secrecy."

A spark lit behind her eyes.

"And how we always got caught by the same janitor," I added, laughing again. "What was his name? Mr. Farouk?"

Her eyes widened in instant recognition, and then she let out a bark of laughter, sudden, unfiltered, and god, so needed. 

"Oh my God," she groaned, covering her mouth with her hand. "Every single time. He'd turn the corner with that mop and look like he walked in on a crime scene."

"Every damn time," I chuckled, leaning closer, resting my forehead against hers. "We were so bad at it. I swear, the man must've thought we lived under the stairs or something."

She laughed again, softer this time, and I felt it through her breath against my skin.

"He never said anything," she murmured, eyes half-lidded now with nostalgia. "He'd just sigh and keep walking like it was none of his business."

"Or like he'd given up entirely," I added, and she kept laughing. We stayed like that, forehead to forehead, the years folding in around us, the noise of the world briefly dimmed.