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A painful truth

A short story of guilt and forgiveness

By Bahora Saitova Published 3 years ago 7 min read
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A painful truth
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Looking back, he wondered how he hadn’t noticed the similarities immediately. The same deep blue eyes, the wavy blond hair. His penchant for bragging. The same love for music and guitars.

Since he could remember himself, he had always loved music. He remembered the first time he held a guitar. It was too big, too heavy, awkwardly fitting between his arms. It felt amazing. He had strung the strings randomly, the sound dull from the untuning, and the strings digging into his small fingers, and he loved the feeling.

Little did he know then that it would become the thing he loathed the most.

Nowadays, he never listened to music. His wife had found it very odd when they had first met, teasing him that he was like a grumpy grandpa.

For someone who doesn’t like music, you sure do know a lot about guitars, she had said one day when he criticized the technique of a guitarist when they were out, eating in a restaurant with live music. He swallowed all his comments for the rest of the night.

He hadn’t touched a guitar in years.

Sixteen years to be exact. And today, he was going to become a father. The thought was dizzying. Even the nine months weren’t enough to prepare him. Suddenly, he wished for another nine months more. Why did pregnancies only last nine months? It seemed too short for such a life-changing event.

Was he even ready? When she had told him she was pregnant, she was so elated he didn’t have the heart to say anything. About his fears and his doubts. And his pain.

The sleepless nights came back with a vengeance.

She would often see him at his desk, writing, when she would wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, something that became more frequent the more the pregnancy progressed. My bladder’s gonna explode, can’t wait for the baby to come, she would complain as she would waddle to the bathroom.

After placing a sleepy kiss on his hair, she’d return to the bed, leaving him alone with his words in the silence of the night. Words that were always accompanied by music in his head. No matter how much he tried to make it stop, the music would only get stronger.

As if punishing him for daring to stop. For daring to forget that he was the son of a musician who didn’t want him and saw him only as a burden.

No matter how much he wanted to, he’d never be able to forget. He’ll always remember the night he learned the bitter truth. His parents were talking in hushed voices in the kitchen and immediately his curiosity was piqued. How he wished he hadn’t eavesdropped on his parents after learning the ugly truth.

“What I don’t understand is why does he want to be a part of his life now? He said it himself he will never sacrifice his musical career and that he didn’t want any children -”

His father had stopped abruptly as their eyes met across the kitchen and he turned and ran away, his heart pounding painfully. Surely it was all a nightmare and he’ll wake up soon.

How could this braggart who kept boasting about his musical career to anyone who cared to hear be his real father? From the first time he saw him, he hadn’t liked him, but he had thought he was only a friend of his parents and hadn’t paid him much attention.

Outside, the cold rain greeted him, mingling with his tears.

“Landon, wait!” yelled his father, running after him in the rain, his shirt getting soaked in seconds.

They must have looked like lunatics, standing in the middle of the street under the torrential rain.

“Is it true?” he asked, his teeth shaking, whether due to the cold or the anger, he couldn’t tell.

“Look, son, I can explain,” said his father, putting his hands up. “Let’s just get inside before you get sick.”

“How could you lie to me all this time?”

Before his father could answer him, they were blinded by a car’s headlights, and the next second, Landon was pushed to the side and he fell hard on his hands and knees. He heard the screeching sound of wheels trying to brake on the slippery road. And then the sickening sound of a body hitting the car windshield.

When he finally found his bearings, he saw his dad lying on the wet cement, his lifeless eyes watching him, the blood on his face diluted by the rain.

He felt his eyes burn and rubbed them with his palms. He went to to the kitchen and put the kettle on. His fingers were shaking as he tried to tear open the Earl Grey teabag.

A memory of his father reading a book and drinking tea while sitting in his favorite chair in front of the windows in the living room flashed in his mind. His father loved tea.

Was he even allowed to call him his father now?

The boiling water spilled over the cup, burning his fingers as he grabbed the little string to avoid it falling into the cup. He hated when it happened.

He grabbed a Bounty napkin and as he tore it, he knocked the hot cup and sent it flying on the marble floor, the hot liquid burning his toes through his socks.

He hissed in pain and bent down to pick up the pieces. As he grabbed the shards of porcelain, it cut his fingers and the blood flew from his hands. Scarlet red.

Deep breaths. Take deep breaths. Like Dr. West used to say. One breath at a time.

“What happened, Landon?” asked his wife, woken up by all the noise.

He looked up at her and saw her eyes widen in panic. “You’re bleeding!”

He wanted to say it was okay, but the words refused to come out. As he opened his mouth, he was horrified to hear a sob come out. Then another. He was a weeping mess on his kitchen floor with his bloody fingers and wet socks.

“Shh, it’s going to be alright, I’ll take care of you,” said his wife. She was rocking him like a child, her big belly making the hug awkward but so needed.

He pulled her tighter, afraid to let go and get lost inside of his head. He knew how hard it was to come out once you get lost in that maze. With no end or light in sight.

“I miss him so much,” he whispered through laborious breaths.

“I know, I know,” she whispered back, kissing his hair.

“I couldn’t even be a good son,” he said.

“Don’t say that, you were a good son,” she said.

“No, I didn’t tell you the whole truth,” he confessed, feeling the shame submerge him under again.

She stilled her rocking and looked at him, her eyes anxious.

“Then, tell me the whole truth.”

“He wasn’t supposed to die. I was,” he said, finally setting the shameful truth free. “My dad — he didn’t die in a car accident. He pushed me out of the way when the car appeared out of nowhere. Had it not been me, he would still have been alive. If I hadn’t run away that night, if I hadn’t listened to their conversation and found out that I was not his son, all of this wouldn’t have happened. If I hadn’t existed, he would be alive today.”

“Your father saved you because he loved you and considered you his real son, Landon. Not everything comes down to blood. Love is stronger than blood,” she said, watching him intently, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“I don’t deserve his love,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“You always did and always will. What happened was not your fault. It was the fault of the drunk driver, not yours.”

He looked at the dried blood on his fingers. “I’m afraid to be a father,” he whispered, unable to meet her eyes.

He could already see the disappointment in them.

“And I’m afraid to be a mother, too, and it’s okay. As long as we have each other, we’ll be okay. We’ll make it through, I promise,” she said, taking his face between her hands and lifting it to her meet her stare.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, on the kitchen floor. But when he finally got up, he saw that it was dawn and it didn’t seem to be so dark inside of his head anymore. His wife was right. Together, they could do this.

***

In life, we often have things that happen to us that are beyond our control and the only thing we can control is our attitude and learn to forgive ourselves to keep going.

Thank you for reading!

Bahora Saitova

family
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About the Creator

Bahora Saitova

Dreamer. Writer. Sees the magic of life through stories and words.

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