The same word he never used when I entered through the back door of my own son's house.
Please.
Funny how quickly people discover manners when consequences arrive.
"I hope everything works out," I said calmly.
Then I ended the call.
For the first time in his life, my son had to stand on his own financial feet.
And for the first time in mine...
I stopped carrying him.
PART 3 — The First Apology
Three days after Logan's phone call, someone knocked on my apartment door at exactly 7:15 in the evening.
I already knew who it was.
People knock differently when they want something.
I opened the door.
My son stood there alone.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
He looked older than I remembered.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Stress had a way of aging people faster than years ever could.
"Dad."
I nodded.
"Logan."
He glanced around the small apartment.
The modest furniture.
The narrow kitchen.
The single recliner by the window.
For six years I had lived in his house, yet he had never once asked where I would go if I left.
Now he was seeing the answer.
"Can I come in?"
I stepped aside.
"Of course."
He entered slowly.
The silence felt unfamiliar.
When he sat down at the kitchen table, I noticed something else.
He looked nervous.
My son had never been nervous around me before.
Children rarely are when they believe their parents will always forgive them.
I poured coffee into two mugs and placed one in front of him.
"Thank you."
I sat across from him.
Still neither of us touched our drinks.
Finally Logan cleared his throat.
"Chelsea didn't want me to come."
I raised an eyebrow.
"That surprises me."
A weak smile appeared on his face.
It disappeared quickly.
"Dad... I owe you an apology."
The words sounded rehearsed.
Not fake.
Practiced.
Like someone who had spent days trying to find the courage to say them.
I folded my hands.
"For what?"
He looked down immediately.
That told me everything.
Because the list was longer than either of us wanted to admit.
"The dinner party."
I nodded.
"And?"
"The way Chelsea treated you."
"And?"
His eyes closed briefly.
"The way I let her."
There it was.
The truth.
Not what Chelsea did.
What he allowed.
The room remained quiet.
Finally he looked at me.
"I should have said something."
"Yes."
"I should have stopped it."
"Yes."
"I should have defended you."
"Yes."
Each answer landed harder than the one before.
Because I wasn't angry.
