Jake walked me back to my truck later. We didn’t hug. Not yet. But he said “Next weekend we’re grilling. Bring whatever. Just come.” I told him I’d be there.

The drive home was different than the one in 1995. No silence this time.

I talked to myself the whole way. Told myself I don’t get to decide I’m unforgivable if my own son says different.

But here’s the thing I can’t shake. I still don’t feel like I deserve it. Thirty years is a long time to carry something. Even when the person you hurt says it’s okay part of you keeps holding the weight anyway.

I keep that four-word note in my wallet. “Dad please be there.” I look at it every morning.

I’m going to that barbecue next weekend. I’ll bring potato salad and try not to mess it up. But the regret? That’s still mine. I don’t know if it’ll ever leave.

I guess that’s what I wanted to confess. I sent my boy away to keep the peace. He grew up anyway. And somehow after all that he still wrote my address in his own handwriting and asked me to show up.

I don’t know what happens after this. I just know I’m going to keep showing up until they tell me different.