The house hadn’t changed.
Not really.
Time had touched it, but not enough to erase what it represented, and as Liam stepped out of the car and walked toward the door, I stayed behind, my hands tight on the steering wheel, feeling the weight of everything that had started there.
When the door opened, my father didn’t recognize him at first.
But he didn’t need long.
Liam handed him a small box.
A birthday cake.
There was no anger in his voice when he spoke, no attempt to accuse or confront, just a calm certainty that made every word land heavier than anything I had ever said.
He told him he forgave him.
Not just for what he had done to me, but for everything that had followed.
Then he said something I never could have.
He told him that the next time he returned, it would not be as family.
It would be as competition.
And that he would win.
Not out of hatred.
But because he had been forced to build everything on his own.
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