"I thought... I thought giving you some space would make things better," I croaked, my voice barely audible. It felt like the words clawed their way out of my throat, scraping against raw emotions I hadn't let myself feel in years. I could feel their eyes on me-heavy, expectant, unrelenting.

The air between us was stifling, thick with tension that seemed to press down on my chest. I tried to focus on anything but their expressions, but I couldn't.

My gaze flickered to Papa first. He was leaning forward in his chair, his fingers laced tightly together, knuckles white. His jaw twitched as though he was biting back words-or maybe tears. I couldn't tell.

"I didn't want it to be like this," I continued, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "But after the rumors started flying around the neighborhood and church..." I trailed off, watching Papa's brow furrow deeper. The lines on his face seemed etched not just by age but by pain, by years of carrying burdens I hadn't fully understood until now.

"I thought it'd be better if I stayed away," I admitted, my voice cracking. I shifted my gaze to Mama. She stood stiffly, her arms crossed over her chest, but her hands trembled faintly where they rested on her sleeves. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, but I could see how she swallowed hard, as if trying to keep her composure.

"I thought maybe it'd hurt less if I wasn't here," I whispered.

Papa scoffed, a sharp, bitter sound that made me flinch. "To hell with the church," he snapped, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. His hands unclasped, one gesturing sharply while the other rubbed his temple as if to chase away an unbearable headache.

I blinked, startled, as he continued. "Whether we did good or bad, people always had something to say. And those members had no right to judge, especially considering not one of them lifted a damn finger to help us when we needed it the most."

His shoulders sagged, and in that moment, he looked older than I'd ever seen him-not just physically, but emotionally drained. His voice was steady, but his eyes-dark, stormy, and brimming with an anger I hadn't seen in years-spoke volumes.

He exhaled shakily, rubbing both hands over his face now. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost resigned.

"I realize that now... but albeit too late," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low rumble that made my chest ache.

Mama's head turned sharply, her gaze locking on him with a mixture of surprise and frustration. "Enough!" she said firmly, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip.

Her body shifted slightly, the trembling in her hands gone as she squared her shoulders. "This is not the time to rehash old wounds," she said, her voice trembling but resolute. "Not when we're here to resolve the one in front of us."

Her words struck me, and for the first time, I noticed how her posture betrayed the weight she carried. She wasn't just a mediator between Papa and Donald-she was the glue barely holding us all together.

I wanted to reach out to her, to tell her I understood now, but I felt rooted in place, as though my body wouldn't obey.

The sharpness of her tone had its intended effect. Papa sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as he slumped back into his chair. His hands rested limply on the arms of the chair, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the wood.

He looked at me again, his gaze softer now but still heavy with years of unspoken emotions.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling. My chest ached as the words left my lips, but they felt right, necessary. "I never meant to bring you sadness with what I did. I never wanted to hurt you, either of you."

Papa nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I know that now," he said, his voice quieter than before. His eyes, though tired, met mine with a sincerity that made my throat tighten. "At some point, I realized you were just making sacrifices, same as I did for this family."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over us like a thick blanket. I could feel my heartbeat thudding in my ears, my mind racing as I tried to process the shift in his tone. But before I could say anything, his expression hardened, and his attention shifted to Donald.

"Step forward," Papa commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The sudden change in his demeanor startled me, and I glanced at Donald, who hesitated before shuffling closer. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched as though he were trying to make himself smaller.

I noticed the way his hands fidgeted at his sides, his fingers curling and uncurling in a nervous rhythm that betrayed his attempts to appear unaffected.

"Why?" Papa asked, his voice steady but edged with steel. The question hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Donald didn't respond, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

"Why, Donald?" Papa repeated, rising from his seat this time. The intensity in his voice made my stomach twist, and I saw Donald's jaw tighten, his body stiffening under the weight of our father's scrutiny.

Before Papa could take another step, Mama moved, her voice trembling but resolute. "Sit down," she said firmly, placing herself between them. Her back was straight, her chin lifted, and though her hands were trembling, her resolve was unshakable. "Please, just sit."

Papa's eyes narrowed, but after a long, tense moment, he obeyed, his hands clenching into fists as he lowered himself back into his chair. I watched him closely, the way his chest rose and fell with each measured breath, as though he were trying to contain the storm brewing inside him.

Mama turned to Donald then, her voice softer now but no less insistent. "Donald," she said, her tone coaxing, "I know something is bothering you. I refuse to believe you acted the way you did without reason."

Donald finally looked up, his gaze meeting mine briefly before shifting to our mother. His eyes were dark with resentment and something deeper-something that sent a shiver down my spine.

"I..." He hesitated, exhaling sharply before he spoke.

"I'm not happy with the way this family treats me. I've always been the one you send to check on her, but when I used to work late at the pharmacy, no one came to check on me. No one cared enough to make sure I got home safe."

His words hit me hard, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. He continued, his voice growing stronger, his frustration spilling out like a dam that had finally burst.

"It's because I'm a man, right? I had to grow up fast, take responsibility, while everyone else got to lean on me. Even when you took out that loan for Ruby's tuition, I thought, who knows, maybe I'll get an opportunity too. But no. You said it'll be best for me to keep working and wait till she was done."

He turned to Papa now, his voice cracking with emotion. "And after everything that happened-after everything with her-you fell apart. And I had to pick up the pieces. I had to keep this family together while you gave up. So yeah, I kept her away. Because I thought it was the only way to protect all of us from falling apart again. But I'm the bad guy now, huh?"

His words were a whirlwind of pain and resentment, and I could see the toll they were taking on him. His hands were shaking now, his knuckles white as he clenched them tightly. I wanted to reach out, to say something, but my voice felt trapped, the weight of his confession pressing down on me.

Papa's voice broke the silence, laced with a bitterness that made my chest ache. "Congratulations," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he stood. "You did a fine job, son. Held the family together by keeping us apart. That's some sacrifice."

"Papa, please stop," I pleaded, my voice trembling, but he ignored me, stepping closer to Donald.

"I'm proud of you for facing reality, for seeing the world isn't black and white. I taught you well. But let me remind you of another lesson I taught you-Patience."

Donald flinched as Papa's voice grew heavier, laden with years of frustration and pain.

"You think I enjoyed seeing my children go without? You think I didn't feel guilt every single day that I couldn't give you everything they deserved?" Papa's voice cracked slightly, his fists clenching at his sides. "Until you've carried half the weight I've carried, Donald, you have absolutely no right to judge me. No right at all."

"Please. That's enough, Julian!" Mama's voice rose sharply, silencing them both. Tears streaked her face, but her gaze was steady, unwavering at Donald. "Everything we've done has always been for you. Even in our weakest moments, we never stopped trying. I never imagined it would be our own child who'd punish us for it."

"I wasn't trying to punish you!" Donald shouted, his frustration spilling over.

Mama's face crumpled as she shook her head. "But you did," she said softly. "And you went about it all wrong."

The room fell into silence again, and I felt something shift inside me-something heavy giving way. I stepped between them, planting myself firmly in front of Donald. For the first time, I didn't feel the weight of resentment, only the need to understand.

"Look at me," I said, my voice steady. He wouldn't. "Donnie," I said again, reaching out to tilt his face toward mine. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say something instead of letting it fester?"

He didn't answer, his jaw tightening.

"You know I would've given it all up for you, right? College, the loans, everything. If it meant you'd feel like someone was on your side, I would've stayed back and worked at the grocery store. I would've waited outside the pharmacy every night just to make sure you weren't alone."

Tears burned in my eyes, but I held them back. "Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me?"

His face crumpled, and for the first time, I saw the boy beneath the man he'd tried so hard to become. "I...," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I wanted to prove I could... be there for us,"

His words trailed off, his voice swallowed by the weight of everything left unsaid. For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't speak. All I could do was look at him-really look at him.

Donald's shoulders, always so squared and strong, sagged now like a structure that had finally buckled under too much pressure. His clenched fists loosened, hanging limply at his sides.

His head dipped forward, and in that instant, I could see it-the years of exhaustion etched into the lines around his mouth, the shadows beneath his eyes.

"You shouldn't have had to prove anything," I murmured, my voice trembling. "Not to me, not to Mama or Papa, and definitely not to yourself. Donnie, you were always enough. Don't you know that?"

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he blinked rapidly, like he was fighting to keep himself together. But it wasn't working. His chest heaved once, and then again, and the next thing I knew, he was crumpling.

I stepped forward instinctively, wrapping my arms around him as his body shook with silent sobs. I felt the tremor in his hands as he gripped my arms, clinging to me like I was the only thing keeping him afloat.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice muffled against my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Ruby. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know how to fix everything-how to fix us-without breaking first."

His words struck something deep inside me, and I held him tighter. "You don't have to fix anything," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "You're allowed to feel hurt, Donnie. You're allowed to break, too. You don't have to carry this all by yourself anymore. Not now, not ever again."

Behind us, I heard a muffled sob, and I turned my head to see Mama. Her hand was pressed over her mouth, tears streaming freely down her face. Papa stood beside her, his expression unreadable, but his posture had softened.

"Julian," Mama whispered, her voice barely audible. "Say something."

Papa's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on Donald and me. Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped forward. His hand hovered for a moment before he placed it firmly on Donald's shoulder.

"I..." He paused, his voice unsteady, like he was struggling to find the right words.

"I don't know what to say, son. I thought I taught you to be strong, but I see now that maybe I taught you to be too strong. Too hard. I should've told you that it's okay to not have everything figured out and ask for help."

Papa's hand rested on Donald's shoulder, and his solemn expression seemed to age him by years. His voice, deep and rough, carried a weight that made the room feel even smaller.

"Is that why?" he asked quietly, his words deliberate and careful. "Is that why you went behind our backs with the real estate investment? Because you wanted to prove you were capable?"

Donald didn't answer right away. His head dipped lower, his shoulders hunching in on themselves as if he were trying to shrink away from the question.

Mama moved without hesitation, crossing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around him tightly. Despite his height towering over her, she managed to cradle his head against her shoulder like she used to when we were kids.

Her fingers weaved gently through his hair, her voice soft and soothing as she murmured, "Oh, Donnie, my poor boy..."

I stepped closer, my hand instinctively finding its way to his back. I rubbed small, comforting circles over the broad expanse of his shoulders, hoping to ease some of the tension.

His heart had always been in the right place-that much was clear to me now. Even when he made mistakes, even when his actions hurt, it was never out of malice. It was always out of love.

Mama held him for a moment longer before Donald slowly pulled away from her embrace. He wiped at his tear-streaked face with trembling hands, his sniffles betraying his attempt to compose himself. He straightened his posture, though his gaze stayed fixed on the floor, unable-or unwilling-to meet anyone's eyes.

Papa moved closer, his expression softening as he placed a steady hand on Donald's shoulder again. His voice was low but warm, like embers burning in a hearth. "I'm sorry, son. For putting too much on your plate. For expecting so much from you without giving enough in return."

Donald nodded, a jerky motion that seemed to take all his effort. Words seemed beyond him now, but the weight of his silence spoke volumes.

Papa studied him for a moment, his gaze brimming with something I hadn't seen in years-true, unfiltered affection. Then he shifted his stance slightly, reaching out to me with his free hand and settling it firmly on my shoulder.

"Come here," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Before I knew it, he was pulling us both into a hug. It was a bit awkward at first, with Donald's height and my smaller frame, but somehow, we fit. I leaned into Papa's side, resting my head in the familiar space between his neck and shoulder. Donald, though visibly unsure, did his best to lean into the embrace as well, his forehead brushing against Papa's temple.

For a moment, everything felt still. The tension, the years of misunderstandings, the fractures in our family-it all seemed to fade away, replaced by something warm and whole.

The joy in my chest swelled to the point where it felt like my heart might burst.

I closed my eyes, holding onto the moment, the sensation of our family coming together again. We still had so much to work through, but for now, this was enough.

This was everything.

💔💔

The weekend flew by in a whirlwind of laughter, family dinners, and quiet moments that felt like home.

I clung to every second, reluctant to leave when Sunday evening rolled around. The thought of heading back to my house filled me with a bittersweet ache, but work loomed over Monday, and I had to prepare myself.

Frida had texted earlier to let me know she wouldn't be home until Tuesday. She was squeezing in every moment with her new boyfriend before her flight to Italy on Wednesday evening.

New boyfriend, I mused, a smile creeping onto my face as I began organizing my handbags. The memory of the other morning still made me chuckle.

Frida had walked into the kitchen with a sheepish grin and a flushed face, trailing behind a tall, broad-shouldered man with warm brown eyes and a friendly smile.

His name was Peter, and they had met during the fundraiser at The Astaire Hotel. It turned out he was the Chief of Security there, and their meeting had been, as Frida described it, "a twist of fate."

I, of course, teased her mercilessly, unable to resist after hearing everything the night before. The walls weren't exactly soundproof, and the sounds of their passion had left little to the imagination. "So... I'm guessing it's serious?" I'd asked, a mischievous grin plastered on my face.

Frida had turned a shade of red I didn't know was possible, mumbling something about me being impossible. Peter, to his credit, had handled it with a chuckle and a shrug, clearly unfazed by my antics.

But behind the teasing, I hoped deeply that this would be something good for her. Frida had a big heart, and she deserved someone who would treat her with the love and respect she gave so freely.

Back in my room, I emptied one of my handbags onto the bed, sorting through old receipts, pens, lipsticks, and crumpled notes. As I transferred the essentials into another bag, a worn business card tumbled out, catching my attention.

I picked it up, smoothing the edges with my fingers. The name printed on it triggered a memory: Ava. We'd met at the hotel, just before I left. She'd slipped me her card, saying to call her if I ever needed anything.

Curious, I turned the card over, reading the details. Ava owned a logistics company here in the US. A spark of an idea flickered in my mind. I grabbed my phone and entered her number, saving it under her name.

I'll call her tomorrow, I decided, a mental note forming as I placed the card carefully in my wallet.

Something about the timing felt... serendipitous..