There was a long pause, then Jessica spoke quietly. “I know. I’ve noticed it too. I’ve seen how much pressure he’s under. He’s always trying to prove something, trying to fit in with them. But I didn’t realize how much it was affecting his relationship with you.”
“I think he’s afraid of losing them,” I said, my voice low. “Afraid of what they’ll think of him if he stands up for me, if he stands up for us. But he shouldn’t have to choose. Not between me and them. Not between what’s real and what’s expected.”
“I agree,” Jessica said. “And I don’t want him to feel like he has to choose either. I think he needs to realize that his value isn’t tied to their approval. I think he’s still learning that. I know I am too.”
Her honesty caught me off guard, but I appreciated it more than I could say. It wasn’t just about the wealth, or the status, or the things Mark had been taught to value—it was about his identity. It was about learning to be comfortable in his own skin, to not let other people’s expectations shape who he was.
“I’m glad you called, Jessica,” I said, my voice softer now. “I think you’re right. Mark’s going to figure it out. It just might take some time.”
“I hope so,” she said quietly. “I really hope so.”
The next few weeks were slow, a quiet kind of waiting. I hadn’t heard from Mark directly, but I knew things were shifting. Jessica’s call had been a breakthrough, but it wasn’t the resolution I was hoping for. Still, it was a step forward.
Then, one Friday evening, I received an unexpected text from Mark. It was short, but it hit me harder than I expected.
“Dad, can we talk?”
I stared at the message for a moment, unsure how to respond. Part of me wanted to just reply, to fix everything quickly, to close the gap that had widened between us. But I knew it couldn’t be rushed.
So I called him back, and we talked—really talked—for the first time in a long while.
Part 3:
Mark answered the phone after just two rings, his voice shaky but determined. “Dad, hey,” he said, his words carrying an air of vulnerability that I hadn’t heard from him in years.
“Hey, son,” I said, my voice steady. “What’s going on?”
There was a long pause, the kind of silence that stretched uncomfortably before Mark finally spoke. “Can we meet?” he asked. “I think it’s time we talked. About everything.”
A heavy knot twisted in my stomach. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for whatever was about to unfold, but I knew that we couldn’t keep avoiding this. I had to face him. We had to face each other.
“I’ll be at the coffee shop in 30 minutes,” I replied. “See you then.”
The coffee shop was a quiet place, just off the beaten path in downtown Portland. It wasn’t flashy or trendy, just a local spot that served good coffee and had a few tables in the back that offered some privacy. I sat at the corner table, the familiar warmth of the coffee cup in my hands, trying to calm the rising nerves in my chest.
When Mark walked in, he immediately spotted me. His face was tired, pale, and there were shadows under his eyes. But it was more than just exhaustion. There was something else in his expression—something that told me he was carrying a weight he had kept hidden for too long.
He walked over slowly, his steps hesitant. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, avoiding my gaze for a few seconds.
“I wasn’t sure how to start this conversation,” Mark said, finally meeting my eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
I studied him for a moment, the familiar features of my son now marked by something deeper—regret, confusion, and perhaps a little fear. “We start with the truth, Mark. You’ve been avoiding it for too long. So let’s face it head-on.”
See more on the next page
Advertisement
