GOODBYE

THEN. Morning light cut through the blinds like a blade. I’d barely cleared the bedroom doorway when I saw him—David Noble, hunched over my kitchen counter, yanking open drawers like he was fighting a clock only he could hear. His hands shook. Not from caffeine. Not from cold. From something deeper, something raw. “David.” My voice came out flat, but confusion bled through anyway. “What the hell are you doing here?” He flinched like I’d hit him. Didn’t turn. Just shook his head and kept looking for something. “Thought I left something here,” he muttered. Voice rough. Tight. Like he’d swallowed glass. I knew that tone. Knew it meant he was lying. Three steps. That’s all it took to cross the kitchen. I grabbed his shoulders, spun him around. My left hand swept the counter behind him moving it out of sight before he even registered the movement. He didn’t notice. Too far gone. “What are you looking for?” I held him by the arms, fingers digging in. “Look at me. Now.” He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. His eyes were bloodshot, not angry red, but hollow red. The kind that comes when your world is shattered. His breath hitched, once, like he was about to crack open right there. For a second, I thought he would. Shoulders slumped. Lips parted. Truth hovering on the edge. Then—click. Like a switch flipped. His back straightened. Jaw locked. Face turned to stone. “Nothing." And he was gone. Out the door before I could grab him again. Silence rushed in. I turned, picking up his phone. Passcode: 0423. I’d seen him type it enough times. I scrolled through the messages. Then I saw it. One text. Sent 47 minutes ago. David, it's time. Bring the pills. Just those words. From my father. My stomach dropped. I left the phone on the counter and walked to my room. Opened the top drawer of my dresser. Pushed aside old receipts, a broken watch, a folded concert ticket. There it was. The bottle. The pills I'd found at David's. I’d taken them weeks ago after finding them in his dresser. Researched them. Called two doctors under fake names and learned exactly their purpose. Now I knew why he was here. And I had a choice — give them to my father or keep them. Either way, someone was going to break.

For a heartbeat, Julien, I thought we’d cracked it—that we could rewind the last six months. I was wrong. Again. You might as well have spit in my face, Julien. You—of all people—thought you should carry Cecilworth’s burden. I trusted you, confided in you. And then you decided not only should I pay for it… but that it had to be a No Holds Barred match? That’s the moment I knew: I had to burn it all down. So I said her name. Not because it was right, but because I needed to cut you as deep as you cut me. It was cruel. Weak. Julia didn’t deserve that. But the truth stands: you’d raze the world if someone so much as looked at her wrong. And yet you think my father, just because he stepped into that ring, was fair game? That his legacy meant anyone could tear him apart? I never saw the full size of your ego until now. Didn't realize how determined to be the main character of a story you weren’t even in. But you still don’t see it—don’t feel it—the depth of my pain. You will. Soon.

THEN.

I don’t remember deciding to go. One minute I was standing somewhere, and the next I was at his front door, keys in hand, turning the lock. The house swallowed sound. Not a creak, not a hum. Just that dead quiet that settles when life is on the precipice. I walked down the hall slowly, like maybe if I took long enough, I’d figure out what to say. Or do. But my feet knew before my head did. He was propped up in bed, thinner than last week, eyes half-open like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see me or not. “Rose,” he said, and his voice broke clean in half. That’s when I lost it. Tears just came, hot and fast, no warning. I sat on the edge of the mattress and took his hands. Cold. Always cold now. I opened my mouth—tried to find something real to say—but what’s left after everything’s already been said a hundred times in silence? So I pulled the pills from my pocket. The ones he’d asked David to bring. Sat them on the nightstand like they were ordinary. Like this was just another errand. He looked at them. Then at me. His eyes said everything: I’m sorry. I’m tired. Forgive me. And then—God—I saw it. A tear slid down his cheek. My father, who never cried, not when Mom died, not when the diagnosis came, not ever. Now, crying like a kid who just realized he’s lost his way home. I held his hands tighter, my own tears falling onto the blanket. Didn’t wipe them. Let them fall. Because after tonight, there’s no more pretending. Tonight’s the last time I see him. And I don’t know how I’ll breathe without him in the world.

What would you do in my shoes, Julien? If your mother came to you—ravaged by an incurable sickness, writhing in pain, fading before your eyes—would you have the strength to do the unthinkable? I know how deeply you love her. I’ve seen it. I loved my own mother unconditionally, even though I haven’t known her in twenty-five years. Imagine the love I’d carry if I’d grown up with her, if I’d had the chance to sit beside her at the kitchen table, share her laughter, hold her hand through the ordinary days. There’s no doubt you’d do anything for Julia. That’s why I know you’re good, truly good. Someone worth saving. Someone worth trusting. I love my father, too, despite everything. The anger I once felt? That was teenage grief—missing my mother, navigating life with only one parent, hormones and heartbreak twisting everything into chaos. But do you know what he did the day I came home, trembling, to tell him his college-aged daughter was pregnant? He took my hands and said, “You’ll never be alone again.” He was right. Even now, gone as he is, I’m not alone. I have Adeline. God, I wish Brian were here—he was the kind of father we both always needed. So I know this: if Julia were suffering, you’d do what’s right. You’d do the selfless thing. But what about your father, Julien? What would you do then?

THEN.

I stared into the mirror, my reflection blurred by tears I couldn’t stop. My eyes were swollen, raw, like my whole face had been scrubbed with sandpaper. I’d just sat beside my father, holding his hand as he laid there in silence, and cried until my throat burned. Every time I thought the tears were done, another wave hit harder, deeper, like grief had its own rhythm I couldn’t control. My hand shook as I reached for the glass. Cold tap water sloshed over the rim. Next to it, the bottle. Phenobarbital. Just seeing the label made my stomach twist. I unscrewed the cap. The sound was too loud in the silence. The pills settled into my palm. Small, white, innocent-looking. Innocent in all this. I looked back at the mirror. At the woman who was supposed to be strong, to hold it together for her daughter. Who knew how to do this, how to help someone die with dignity when all she wanted was to scream, to beg the universe to stop taking everyone she loved? There was no manual for this. No one ever said, “Here’s how you hand your father the glass that ends it.” Brian’s death broke me. I thought that was rock bottom. But this, this was worse. Because now I had to be the one standing when he couldn’t. Had to be steady when everything inside me was collapsing. The thought of being alone again made my chest cave in. Mom gone. Brian gone. And now Dad—my anchor, my quiet strength—ready to let go. Adeline would still be here, yes, but who would hold me up? Who would I call when the world feels like it’s ending? I couldn’t let myself fall apart. Not completely. Because if I did, she’d drown too. She’d already lost her father. Now she was losing her grandfather, the man who let her sit on his lap while he read the paper, who called her “my little light.” Two deaths in one year. Two gaping holes where love used to live. My breath hitched. The sobs came again. Violent, ugly things that doubled me over. For a second, I wasn’t sure I could stand it. Not this time. Not again. But then I heard her voice in my head. Soft. Scared. “Mama?” I wiped my face with the back of my arm, hard. Swallowed the scream building in my throat. Took a breath that didn’t fill my lungs but had to be enough. Because he was waiting. Because she would need me. So I straightened my shoulders. Locked the grief behind my ribs like a secret I couldn’t afford to show. One foot in front of the other. One breath. One sip of water. One pill. Then the other. And as I walked back to his room, I felt something inside me go quiet, not gone, just buried. Like the part of me that still hoped for mercy had finally learned: life doesn’t give a damn if you’re ready. It just keeps taking. And you keep giving, until there’s nothing left but the will to keep someone else from falling apart.

I get it, your hatred for your father isn’t just justified, it’s earned. I won’t soften it, rationalize it, or ask you to forgive. How could anyone live under that roof? A man with no conscience. Abusive, controlling, a tyrant who turned your home into a cage. Every step measured, every breath held, just to avoid his notice. Relief only came when he left, paralysis set in when he returned. My own issues with my father? Child’s play next to yours. And now, this half-sister. Another fracture in a life already shattered. It’s impossible to untangle your rage at him from your curiosity about her. Did you not deserve his love? Wasn’t your existence enough to make him fight his own darkness, to be the father you needed? Look around PRIME. We’re all broken toys, tossed aside, waiting for the trash. Yet here we are, weaponizing our pain, turning abandonment into ammunition. Legal. Lucrative. And still corrosive enough that even our staff psychiatrist needs therapy just to survive our sessions. No one walks out healed. We just learn to bleed quieter. But ask yourself this: Could you do the unthinkable? Grant him peace? Him, of all people? Hate him if you must. But would you be FLAMBERGE without him? Strip away his cruelty—make him kind, present, proud of you—and who are you then? Would this Julien even exist? Or did you forge yourself against him? In rebellion? In spite? And if you could trade it all—the rage, the strength, the fire—for a childhood that never scarred you… Would you?

THEN.

My father held the pills in one hand, the glass of water trembling slightly in the other. He lifted the pills to his lips—dry, cracked—and just as he tilted his head back to swallow, I stopped him. “Is there anything I could say… to make you change your mind?” He pulled the pills back, slow, like it weighed more than his bones. His eyes found mine, and I swear I felt the floor give way beneath me. Tears were already carving paths down my face, hot and endless. I crumpled onto the bed beside him, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe. He wrapped an arm around me. Thin, weak, but still trying. “Every day,” he whispered, voice ragged, like it was being torn out of him. “Every damn day, I wake up worse than the one before. I used to travel the world—hundreds of days on the road, never complained once. But this?” He shook his head, jaw clenched against the pain. “This is different. It’s like my body’s turning on me, piece by piece. My hands don’t listen. My legs won’t hold me. Some mornings I can’t even lift my head.” He looked at me then—not with pity, not with fear—but with something worse: apology. “I’m scared,” he said, quieter now. “Not of dying. Of getting stuck. Trapped in this bed, in this body, watching you all hover over me like I’m already gone. And when that moment comes—when I can’t speak, can’t move—will you be the one to put that pills in my mouth? Will you help me swallow it?” I choked on a breath. “I can’t ask that of you,” he went on. “So I’m doing it while I still can. While I still have a choice. A shred of dignity. You don’t have to stay. I never wanted this for you. Just tell David. He’ll know what to do.” The silence after that was thick, suffocating. The kind that presses against your ribs until you think they’ll crack. Then, softer: “But if you tell me it’s too much, if you say you’re not ready, I’ll hold on. As long as I have to. For you.” I wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweater—rough, desperate—and looked at him. Really looked. At the man who taught me how to ride a bike, who stayed up all night when I was sick, who never once let me see him break. Even now, he was trying to spare me. I sat up. Took his hands in mine. They felt like paper over wire. And then I took the pills. His eyes held sorrow, but he didn’t pull away. I placed it gently on his tongue. Lifted the glass with his other hand, guided it to his lips. Held it steady as he drank. Watched as his throat moved once, twice, swallowing not just the pills, but the last bit of control he had left. And just like that, it was done. Grief surged in my chest, sharp and blinding. But I didn’t let it win. Not yet. For him, I held it together.

When this is all said and done, Julien, I won’t be the same person who stepped into the ring with you. I’m done. I refuse to live drowning in anger and hatred anymore. For years, it’s been my only fuel, the one emotion I let myself feel, and it’s cost me everything. My time with my daughter. My life. My future. You? Your rage has festered for decades. It’s driven you to greatness. I’ve watched every moment, and yes, you belong in that ring, among the legends. No question. But when it’s over, Julien—when the lights dim and the cheers fade—will you look back and say it was worth it? Or will you realize that rage consumed everything it touched?

THEN.

The silence wasn't empty; it was full of everything we’d never said. It had a weight, pressing down on us in that room. I opened my mouth, but my breath just hitched. There were no right words. Time wasn’t just short; it was a single, trembling breath held between us. A sound, dry as old leaves, came from my father. “I tried my best.” He had to fight for the air to say it. “I know I failed you. I was… gone. Chasing a ghost on the road because staying still felt like dying. After your mother… this life… it was just an echo. And you—” His eyes, clouded with pain, found mine. “You looked so much like her. It was a gut punch every single morning. A beautiful, awful reminder that she was supposed to be here. That we were supposed to be us.” I pushed myself up, my own vision blurring as I saw him fighting for the next second, and the next. “I just… need you to know I tried. I’m sorry it wasn’t… enough.” A sound escaped me, not a word, but a denial torn from somewhere deep. I reached for his hand, its familiar weight now so frighteningly light. “No. Dad, no.” My voice was thick. “Another man… another father might have been home every night, but he wouldn’t have been you. He wouldn’t have known that I needed two sugars in my hot chocolate, never one. He wouldn’t have known that the only way to quiet my nightmares was to rub small circles right between my shoulder blades until my breathing slowed to match yours.” I squeezed his hand, desperate for a squeeze back. “If he’d stayed, if he’d given up his dreams for me, I would have felt it. I would have felt like I’d broken something in him. You… you never let me carry that. You showed me how to survive your own heart breaking. You taught me how to get up.” His eyes closed. A single tear escaped, tracing a slow, deliberate path down his temple into the pillow. It was a final surrender. “I was so angry with you for years,” I whispered, my forehead nearly touching his. “But after Brian… God, I get it now. The grief is a physical thing. It sits on your chest in the morning and dares you to move. Wrestling wasn’t you leaving me. It was you learning how to take that first breath, that first step, when every part of you is screaming to lie down and never get up. You were teaching me how to live, even when living hurts. You were preparing me for this exact moment. And I swear to you, I will teach Adeline the same. To be brave. To chase the light. You were the perfect father for the daughter I was, and the woman I had to become. I wouldn’t change a single second of it.” The only sound was none. “Dad?” His face was peaceful. The tears had stopped. The faint, ragged rise and fall of his chest had stilled into an impossible quiet. “Dad?” My voice was a shattered whisper. I leaned in, my ear hovering over his heart, praying for a thrum, a flutter, anything. Nothing. I laid my head down on the still-warm hollow of his chest. A silent, helpless sob racked my body, my tears soaking into the rough cotton of his hospital gown. I held onto him, waiting for a heartbeat that would never come again. He was gone.

I hope one day, we can find our way back to each other.

Until that day comes, I wish you the best.

You asked me once if I have a death wish. I think after he left, I honestly did. Now? I need to live.

Just know, I would've done everything differently if I had the hindsight I have now.

NOW.

Three hours north of San Diego, hidden from the main highway, was the place I’d been searching for—a remote community that felt forgotten by the world. After months of online searching, following whispers and forum posts hinting at something unique about this church, I understood what they meant. My feet carried me up the worn steps, and I pushed the heavy wooden door open. The air inside was still and cool, carrying the scent of old wood and dust. A deep silence hung in the space. I could feel a presence, a familiar weight in the quiet. A thin place. That’s what they call it. A place where the veil feels fragile. Where the other half of me could finally reach through. I walked down the aisle, my footsteps soft on the old floorboards. And there he was, sitting in the front pew just as I remembered. He was staring ahead, but as my eyes found his profile, he was exactly the man I’d known my whole life. "Hey, Dad," I whispered. He turned, and his face lit up. "Rose. I was wondering if I’d get to see you again." A warm tear traced a path down my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. "I needed to see you," I said. "I've been searching." He smiled softly and shifted on the pew. "Come, sit." I sat down beside him. The wood creaked under my weight. "What do you need?" he asked. I shook my head. "I just need to sit with you for a while." He didn't say anything else. He just took my hand in his. And we sat there together, in the quiet of the forgotten church.