On his 18th birthday, he surprised me. “I want to see Grandpa,” he said calmly. We drove to my dad’s house — the same one I hadn’t seen in nearly two decades. Liam carried a small box. I stayed in the car, hands shaking on the wheel. When my father opened the door, confusion flickered, then recognition. Liam looked so much like me — like him.
Liam handed him the box. “Happy birthday,” he said evenly. “I forgive you. For what you did to Mom. And to me.” My father stayed silent, his face unreadable. “But understand this,” Liam added. “Next time I knock, it won’t be with cake. It’ll be as your biggest competitor. And I’ll win — not out of hate, but because you made us do it alone.”
