Chapter 7

Exhausted from everything, though I hadn't slept well in ages, I dozed off on the plane.
Even in my dreams, I saw Sophia's face.
At seven,
she said she'd be the bride, and I'd be the handsome groom.
At eighteen, we got together.
She promised to make loads of money, give me a huge wedding, and build a happy family with me.
When did things change?
After Daniel showed up, or earlier?
I couldn't recall the exact moment. Maybe there wasn't one. Maybe it was a slow erosion — like a riverbank giving way, one grain of sand at a time, until there's nothing left to stand on.

The flight attendant touched my shoulder.

"Sir, we're landing."

I blinked awake, wiped my face. It was wet.

Even in sleep, I couldn't stop grieving.

Dad was waiting at the arrivals gate. He looked older than I remembered — silver at his temples, deeper lines around his eyes. But his back was straight, his gaze steady.

He didn't hug me. That wasn't his style.

Instead, he took my bag, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, "Let's go home."

Home. His penthouse overlooking the city skyline. Immaculate, spacious, and painfully quiet. The kind of place that made you realize how much noise another person's presence adds to a life.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Not really."

"Good. Because I can't cook."

We ordered takeout and ate in comfortable silence. No prying questions, no forced optimism. Just two men sharing a meal.

After dinner, Dad poured two glasses of whiskey — the expensive stuff he saved for important occasions.

"To new beginnings," he said.

I clinked his glass. "To new beginnings."

We drank. The whiskey burned, but it was a clean burn. Nothing like the hollow ache in my chest.

"Your room's ready," Dad said. "I had it set up last week."

"Last week? I only called you three days ago."

He gave me a look — the one that said more than words ever could.

"I've had that room ready for two years, Alex. Ever since I first met Sophia."

"You knew?"

"I suspected. A father knows when his son is being loved and when he's being tolerated."

The word hit harder than I expected. Tolerated. That's exactly what it was.

"I should have listened to you," I muttered.

"You were in love. Love makes us deaf." He finished his whiskey. "But you're here now. That's what matters."

I stared out the window at the unfamiliar skyline. New city. New life. Same old heartbreak, but at least here, no one knew my name.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for waiting."

He patted my shoulder — twice, firmly — which in Dad language was the equivalent of a bear hug.

"Always, son. Always."

That night, for the first time in weeks, I slept without dreaming of Sophia.