“The furniture is yours. Use it, save it, give it away, or sit in that chair yourself. It belongs to your future, whatever that becomes.”
He looked down, then back at the camera.
“You should’ve tried sooner,” I whispered.
The screen flickered.
“But I know, Dad.”
***
Four months later, Joshua and I hosted Thanksgiving.
The rocking chair stood near the window, where the carved moons caught the afternoon light.
Greg arrived holding a store-bought pie.
“I know this invitation doesn’t mean I’m forgiven,” he said.
He nodded. “Then why am I here?”
“Because forgiveness isn’t the first step. Honesty is.”
His eyes moved toward the chair.
“Dad made that for you.”
“For my future,” I corrected. “Not yours to explain. Not his to control. Mine.”
***
At dinner, Aunt Sandy asked why Greg had missed Sadie’s graduation.
He answered quickly.
Then he stopped.
“No. That’s another lie.”
Sadie set down her fork.
Greg looked at her. “I forgot. I was ashamed, so I invented a reason that made me look better.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
No one praised him. Truth wasn’t a performance anymore.
