Part 2: The Secret in the Blood

I looked through the windshield of my car. Across the street, sitting on the cold concrete steps of the chapel, Mr. Raymond—no, my father—shook with silent, ragged sobs. His shoulders, once broad enough to carry the weight of our entire world, were completely broken.

I had told him I wouldn’t give him a single penny. I had let him believe that the boy he raised had turned into a heartless, arrogant monster corrupted by a six-figure salary and a life of luxury.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. The envelope on the passenger seat contained everything: the receipt for his $20,000 surgery paid in full, the deed to a beautiful, sunlit house with a garden far away from the damp, moldy riverbank, and this cursed, beautiful piece of paper. I had planned a grand surprise. I wanted to shock him, to force him to move out of that miserable rented room by refusing to let him live there anymore. But my dramatic, foolish pride had inflicted a wound that was bleeding deeper than any needle ever could.

I opened the car door and stepped out into the humid evening air.

The Weight of a Lie
As my shoes clicked against the asphalt, the sound seemed to echo through the empty street. I approached the chapel steps cautiously, like a man walking through a minefield.

“Dad,” I choked out, the word catching like glass in my throat.