Leaving Adley all soft and sated in my bed was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. As much as I’d like to stay and worship her body, she needs to study, and I’ve got shit to get done. First up on my list: Dad.

When I pull into his driveway, I’m shocked to see him standing on the front porch. His eyes are closed, and his face is tilted toward the morning sun. It’s nice today, much nicer than it has been, but that’s usually not enough to pull him off the couch.

“You okay?” I ask, walking up the front walk. I stop at the bottom step and watch him. When he doesn’t respond, I try again. “Dad, are you okay?”

“I couldn’t remember what it felt like to have the sun on my face,” he says without opening his eyes. “I was sitting there wondering what certain things felt like, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember.”

My dad is not a philosophical guy. I’ve always considered him simple. Simple life. Simple mind. Simple values. Which means he’s either drunk, or dying.

“Did you walk down to the corner store?”

That question makes him open his eyes. “No. Why would you ask that?”

I search his face for his normal signs of drunkenness, but his eyes are clear, his balance is steady, and the only thing I can smell is…Old Spice?

“I don’t know. You haven’t been outside in months. To be honest, I thought maybe you were drunk.”

He blinks at me, and then craziest thing happens. He smiles. A genuine smile—not one born out of hatred, promising retribution. It isn’t evil or vindictive. It’s a true, heartfelt smile. I can’t remember the last time I saw my father’s smile, and for reasons unbeknownst to me, I find myself smiling along with him.

“Nope. Not drunk,” he says, closing his eyes and tilting his face back toward the sun.

I watch him for several moments, but he offers nothing more until I step around him and open the front door.

“Today was the first day I woke up and didn’t immediately think about alcohol or go searching for a bottle of whiskey. Today is the first day in years that I’ve felt alive.”

His words stop me in my tracks.

“The sun was shining through the window. It looked nice out, and I tried to remember what it felt like to be warmed by the sun instead of alcohol, and for the life of me, I couldn’t.” Dad sighs and lowers his head. “There’s a lot of things I can’t remember.”

I should walk away—turn my back, go into his house, and do what I came here to do. Instead I ask, “Like what?”

“Lots of things.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, so I step into the house. I shut the door softly between us and nearly trip over my feet when I see the state of the living room. Boxes are piled up on the end table. Pictures and photo albums are strewn out across the floor, and the TV is paused on what looks like an old video of one of my first bull rides with the PBR.

Throat thick with emotion, I grab the remote and un-pause the TV.

“Look at him ride. That boy is talented,” the announcer says as the bull whips and turns, trying to fling me off his back. The buzzer sounds, marking my first eight-second ride with the PBR, and when I dismount, he lets out a low whistle. “Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen, Lincoln Bennett is the next big thing.”

The recording ends, and the TV turns to black and white static before flicking off, and that’s when I realize Dad is standing behind me. I didn’t even hear him come in.

“What is this?” I ask, motioning toward the TV.

Dad never showed an ounce of interest in my bull-riding career. He never asked about it, never talked about it, never congratulated me on a good ride, and he sure as hell didn’t show any empathy when my career tanked. What the hell is he doing with a video of my first televised ride?

He rolls his eyes and huffs, the easygoing man from a couple of seconds ago long gone. “It’s a recording.”

“Well, no shit, but what are you doing with it?”

“It’s mine. I recorded it.” He plops down on the couch and picks up a picture.

I shake my head. “Why?”

“Because I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be happy. The last time I remember being happy was when I sat and watched you on TV that night.”

His words nearly knock me on the ground. “You probably couldn’t remember because you went to the bar afterwards and got wasted. I should’ve been celebrating that night. Instead, I had to come bail you out of jail for popping Billy Sargenta in the nose.”

“Yeah, well, that’s your own fault. You should’ve left me in that cell. I would’ve been fine until morning.”

He’s right. I should’ve left him there. That’s what he deserved. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve been working really hard to put that shit in my past and look forward.

“Do you remember this day?” he asks, holding up a picture of me and Chloe.

We’re standing by the lake with our arms around each other. That day will be forever engrained in my head. But not because it was the day Chloe caught her first fish—because of what happened afterward. The good memories are always overshadowed by the bad ones.

“Vaguely,” I lie.

Picking up a few of the albums, I move them out of the way so I can walk through the living room.

“I don’t remember it either,” he mumbles. “But look at Chloe’s smile. That’s another thing I couldn’t remember—her smile.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t smile much.”

Dad looks at me. “What are you talking about? She smiled all the time.”

I shake my head. “No, she didn’t, Dad. Those pictures? They’re outliers. Those are fake smiles from broken kids. If I remember correctly, not long after that photo was snapped, you and Mom got wasted. I had to walk a mile down the road and call your friend Tom Maynard for a ride. When we got home, Chloe wouldn’t stop crying because she left her favorite doll in Tom’s car. Mom backhanded her, and do you know what you did?”

He swallows, but doesn’t make a move.

“You told her to quit being a pussy. And when she still wouldn’t quit crying, you locked her in a closet and left her there—told her if she came out you’d whip her ass until it was black and blue.”

“I—” He looks down at the picture in his trembling hand.

“I waited until you passed out on the couch, and then I let Chloe out and held her while she cried. When her tears dried up, I gave her a bath, fed her dinner, and put her to bed.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I’m thankful for the momentary reprieve. I pull my cell out and see a text from Chloe.

Got any plans today?

At Dad’s now. I have a training session at The Barn at noon, and then I’m free.

Want to help me move a few things to Rose’s place?

Sure. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Leave the heavy lifting to me.

When I slip the phone back in my pocket and look up, Dad is still staring at the photo.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this, Dad. Why now? Why drag all of this out?”

He blinks and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

We stare at each other for several long seconds, and then he clears his throat.

“I’m sorry I told you to get outta my house the other day.”

I want to correct him, tell him that technically it’s my house, but I’m better off keeping my mouth shut. I’ve fought with him enough over the years, and I’m tired of it.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I turn to the cabinets to make sure there isn’t anything he needs. I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping him stocked, and I think we’re good for at least another week or so.

“I’ll stop by in the next few days and fix that leaky faucet.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, picking up another picture. “Linc?”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom didn’t want kids. When she got pregnant with you, I tried to convince her it was going to be okay, and for the first few months, it was. She seemed happy. But then Chloe came along. My sweet baby girl.” His eyes mist as he brushes a thumb over the picture. “I’m not sure if it was the stress of caring for two kids or if it was Chloe herself. Chloe was a difficult baby—always crying. She had colic, and I swear the girl cried from five o’clock in the morning until five o’clock at night. I would come home from work, and your mom would hand me Chloe, shove you into my arms, and she’d be out the door.”

Dad takes a deep breath, and I stand frozen. He hasn’t talked about Mom once since she walked out on us, and as much as I don’t want to hear what he has to say, I can’t get myself to walk away. For some reason, this moment feels important—the conversation long overdue.

With a heavy sigh, I walk across the room and clear a spot on the couch so I can sit down. “Where would she go.”

“The bar. Every single night, like clockwork, she would walk out when I walked in, and I wouldn’t see her again until she stumbled in sometime around two in the morning. She always reeked of beer and men’s cologne. But I loved her. I thought she was just going through a hard time and needed an outlet, so I let her have it. But it only got worse. She would stay out later and later until she quit coming home all together. I’d go days without seeing her. Eventually I lost my job. Your mom and I, we would fight, endlessly. I started to resent her, and eventually I, too, turned to the bottle.”

He looks up, tears in his eyes, and frowns. “That was my first mistake. If I could go back and change anything, it would be that night. I’m sorry for a lot of things in my life, but that moment is top on my list.”

I look down at my hands hanging loose between my knees, unsure how to respond. I know how the rest of the story goes, because I remember that night. That night my entire life changed.

“My father used to tell me that everything in your life is a reflection of a choice you’ve made. That never held much meaning for me because I worked hard to give my family a good life, and that life had crumbled at my feet. But the other day when you told me you were trying to be better and do better than your mother and I did, that’s when his words hit home. You made a choice to be better, and your life reflects that. I wish I could say I played a part in instilling that in you, but I didn’t.

“My words don’t mean shit, but I’m proud of you, Linc. I want you to know you’ve proved your mother wrong.”

Holy shit. Threading my fingers through my hair, I stand up. When I walked in here, this is not what I was expecting. Hell, I never expected to have this conversation, and now that it’s happening, I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say.

This is the man who chose alcohol and his abusive wife over his kids. This is the man who beat me more times than I can count—the man who left me to care for my baby sister when I was barely able to care for myself. My head tells me to walk out, that he doesn’t deserve more than that from me. But if I listened to my head, there’s a lot of things I wouldn’t have. One of those things is Adley.

Turning around, I look at my father. He’s aged over the years, and it hasn’t been gracefully. But today he looks more like the man I remember as young boy. The man who would come home and play trucks with me on the floor. The man who bought me my first baseball glove and tucked me in at night. It’s that man who’s sitting before me, searching for some sort of fucked-up olive branch.

It takes a strong man to admit when he’s wrong, and an even stronger man to forgive. I’m not ready to forgive my father for the things he put Chloe and me through, but I am man enough to acknowledge his strength.

“Thank you, Dad. I appreciate that.”

His hopeful eyes watch me, waiting for more, but I don’t know how much more I have to give.

“I, uh… I’ve gotta get to work.”

“Right.” He nods before tossing the picture he was holding in a nearby box. “Sure, I understand. You’ve got shit to do.”

Nodding, I turn to the door. My fingers are wrapped around the knob, but I can’t get myself to open it.

“Dad?” I turn back, and he looks up. “Leave the boxes out. I’d like to look through them some time.”

“I can do that.”