2.
"Forgive you?"
I said it slowly, one word at a time, my voice soft as sleep-talk but laced with ice.
"Chad Fox, do you think you deserve that?"
There was a beat of silence on the other end, as if he hadn't expected this reaction.
He'd probably assumed that twenty-odd years had been enough to wear down every edge and every ounce of my hatred.
"Hester, I know I was a bastard back then, but Denys is innocent. He just wants us to be a family again—"
I cut straight through the sickening act. "You think you have any right to say the word family?"
"Chad Fox, listen carefully. Since the two of you love each other so much, since you can put on such a moving little father-son show—then I don't want this son anymore!"
"From now on, his wedding, his funeral, his sickness, his old age—all of it is yours to handle."
"After all, you two are the real family."
I didn't give him a single chance to say another word. I hung up hard and blocked the number too.
The world was finally quiet.
After that day, Denys really did stop contacting me.
The business of signing over the house naturally came to nothing.
I didn't bring it up again, and he tactfully vanished.
Until a week later, when I came home from buying groceries.
The moment I opened the door, the rich smell of home cooking hit me.
I froze in the entryway. In the kitchen, Denys was hard at work.
"Mom, you're home!"
He came out carrying a plate of barbecue ribs, a smile on his face I'd never seen before—almost fawning.
When I didn't respond, he quickly wiped his hands and looked at me, anxious. "Mom, I'm sorry, I came over without telling you first—"
I looked at the table full of carefully prepared dishes. All of them were things I loved.
"If you have something to say, say it."
I changed my shoes, my voice cold.
The smile froze on Denys's face. He drew a deep breath, then suddenly set the plate down on the table and knelt straight down in front of me.
"Mom, I know I was wrong!"
Then he slapped himself hard across the face.
Five finger marks bloomed instantly on his fair skin.
"Hit me, curse me, whatever it takes to make you feel better!"
He was crying as he spoke, every word firm and final.
"Mom, believe me, I really do know I was wrong. These past few days I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, I kept regretting it."
"I swear, from today on, I'm cutting him off completely!"
"He's not my father anymore! In this whole world, you're the only family I have!"
I looked at my son on his knees, at his red, swollen cheek and his tears.
And that heart of mine, already torn full of holes, still gave a faint, thin ache.
I sighed and told him to get up and eat with me.
Over the next few days, Denys was like a different person.
He showed up at my place right after work every day, never mentioning the house again.
He just quietly bought groceries, cooked, mopped the floors, hung around me the way he did as a boy, telling me funny stories from work.
He'd carefully pour me a glass of warm water, and drape a blanket over me when I fell asleep in front of the TV.
"Mom, don't worry. Even after I get married, I'll have you move in and live with us."
"By then your daughter-in-law will give you a fat, healthy grandson, and you can just take it easy at home."
The heart is made of flesh, after all.
Twenty-odd years of mother and son—you can't just cut that off overnight.
Under this fierce campaign of his, the block of ice that had been frozen in my chest for so long finally began to melt.
Then came the day he finished dinner with me, talked for a long while, and only then got up to leave.
"Mom, I'm heading out now. Get some rest early."
He walked to the door to change his shoes, his smile warm.
I nodded, watching his back, my heart soft.
The moment he shut the door, I looked down and caught sight of a set of car keys left on the coffee table.
That boy, always forgetting something.
I picked up the keys and, without a second thought, went after him.
But the stairwell's motion-sensor light was dim, and Denys stood with his back to me at the bend of the stairs, on the phone.
His voice was pressed low, with a faint, barely detectable note of coaxing and reassurance, furtive.
My steps nailed themselves to the floor.
I heard him say softly:
"Dad, don't worry."
"She's already caved on her end. Sweet-talk her another couple of days and it'll definitely be fine."
I went still, and then came his confident voice.
"Don't fret about the money. I'm her only son. How could she not give me the house?"
"The second the house is signed over, I'll bring you here to live out your days."
He paused, his tone full of certainty and a trace of contempt.
"You're my real father. How could I not take care of you?"
"Her? She's just stubborn. All these years and she's still the same—a little coaxing and she comes around."
"Once the house is in my name, where's she going to go if she makes a scene? She'll still have to stay home and take good care of us both."
My blood ran cold, inch by inch.
