I felt like I was suffocating.
Every word I had said to him.
Every night I denied him a hug.
Every cold look.
And the day I kicked him out of my house… my own son.
I collapsed into a chair.
—My God… what have I done?
Ethan approached slowly.
“The same thing many parents do: forget that a child doesn’t need blood, only love.”
I put my hands to my face.
—Ethan… I have no right to ask for your forgiveness.
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said,
“I don’t need it. But there is something I want.”
-Whatever.
—I want you to call me son. At least once. Not for me… for you.
The words caught in my throat.
I stood up, trembling. I looked into his eyes, those eyes that I now understood why they seemed so familiar.
And I said,
“Son.”
Ethan closed his eyes. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
—Thank you, Dad.
That night, the gallery closed late.
The journalists had left, the spotlights were off.
Only he and I remained, sitting in front of the unfinished portrait.
“Can I help you finish it?” I asked.
Ethan smiled.
“That would be a good start.”
He took a paintbrush, handed it to me, and pointed to the canvas.
Leave a Comment