“Nah, man. Opposite. I want you to fight for her, Jesse. I want you to sort your shit out. Drop this guilt you think you have because of me and win her back. I wanted to die. Yes. But you didn’t let me. Do I think about that every day of my life, wishing you let me go? No. I think about how grateful I am I survived. I wasn’t meant to die, Jesse. I know that now. I wish you could see it too.” Needing a moment to process everything he just confessed, I move over to a chair. Yeah, we’ve talked about this in the past, but maybe today is the first time I’ve allowed myself to actually listen.

“I guess I just always felt you didn’t want this life, Conner. That day, it plays over in my mind most nights, seeing you laying there and pleading with me…” I let the memory trail off.

“It’s the life I’ve been given, Jesse. Not saying it’s not hard, ‘cause it is sometimes, but I’m not going to let it control me. It’s been five years. Fifteen surgeries, months and months of rehab. Do you think I’m giving up? Fuck no. So I’m not accepting this from you. You have a chance at happiness. Don’t fucking blow it.” I look up and see one of my best friends surviving in this world. Not only existing, but living. Constantly fighting, not once in a while, but every single day, and a new hope stirs in my belly. This man, this hero hasn’t given up after everything he has been handed.

Why should I?

“Where the fuck is it?” I curse, searching through my bag two hours later. After leaving Conner to finish out his physical therapy, I took a ride to clear my head. I knew I had a long road ahead of me, but after one real conversation with Conner, it was as if a new light had set fire in me. I could see more clearly. Just because I had been living a life I didn’t want, didn’t mean Conner was. I had painted him in the same light I saw myself. Instead of letting go and taking his word for it, I held on to a false sense of guilt for surviving. The irony was, out of the two of us, I was the one perishing. And after finally realizing it, I knew things had to change. Conner was right. I had a real shot at happiness with Bell, if I could just set this shit with my father aside.

Coming up empty in my bag, I move to my jeans and search the pockets.

“Kadence!” I shout, wondering if she’s seen it lying around.

“I’m in the kitchen!” Moving through the clubhouse, I pass Sy and Holly in the middle of some bullshit fight. I block them out and continue on towards Kadence.

“Hey.” I walk into the kitchen watching her place the last layer of sauce on her famous lasagna.

“Hey, how’re you?” She looks up at my voice. “How’s Conner?”

Most people avoid asking about Conner, unsure of how to address the conversation. Not Kadence. She gets it. Understands my need to keep it real. “He’s good, doing better.”

“That’s great. You should invite him over for dinner now he’s out of rehab.” She picks up the pot and starts pouring more sauce.

“Yeah, sure,” I agree without really listening. “Hey, did you pick up any envelopes last week at the safe house?” I ask, wondering if maybe I should just forget about it. I mean, is it really going to help?

“Hmm,” she pauses then turns to me, “maybe.” She places the pot back on the stove and moves to her bag on the table.

“It’s no big deal if you…” I trail off as my eyes find the worn white envelope safely in Kadence’s hand.

“This?” She waves it in front of me.

“Where did you find that?” I bite out before I can catch myself.

“In the trash.” She levels her stare on me. I don’t even remember throwing it away.

“You still want it?” Her head tilts to the left in a subtle challenge.

“Um.” I look at my father’s handwriting scribbled across the front then back to her. The truth is I don’t know what I want. Part of me wants to tell her to take it and put it back in the trash and never think about it again. After all, a crumbly piece of paper with some words isn’t going to repair a lifetime of wrong doings. But another part of me is curious. What could he say to me on paper that he couldn’t ever say out loud?

“You should at least open it.” She steps forward and hands me the letter. “If you don’t like what he wrote, throw it away again.” She makes it sounds so simple, then turns back to the stove.

“Will you read it for me?” I find myself asking before I can take it back.

“You don’t think it’s private?” She turns back and questions.

“Had been carrying it around since the night he died. Tried to open it every day till I finally broke down and threw it away,” I admit, holding out the letter. She takes it back without a word and moves toward a chair. I stay standing and watch as she slides her finger along the top, breaking the seal and pulling out a piece of paper.

“You sure?” She looks up before unfolding it.

“Now or never.” I shrug, knowing it could go either way. At least having Kadence here with me forces me to address my feelings. She wouldn’t let me fall back in to the hole she fought so hard to get me out of.

She nods, unfolds the piece of paper, and begins:

Jesse,

I know this letter probably comes too late in more ways than one and that sorry will never take away the pain or ugliness I brought to our family, but it may give you the closure you deserve.

They say guilt is to the spirit what pain is to the body. Throughout my life I’ve carried a lot of guilt, failures and many disappointments, but as I lie here reflecting on my life, my biggest regret is not being the kind of father of which you were completely worthy. I lost my way. I let drinking become my outlet, my place where I could shut everything away, even the people I cared about the most. I guess it's only fitting now that the same thing that masked my darkness and took away my family is now taking my life from me.

I'm sorry, Jesse, for every time I’ve demanded respect, instead of earning it. For saying “No,” simply because I could. For every time I’ve told you to be humble and then turned around and told you that losing wasn’t an option. For limiting my love, for every time you’ve needed a father and I gave you something less because I didn’t think my love was enough. But most of all, I’m sorry for not saying sorry until it was too late.

My only hope now is that in my death you spend the rest of your life knowing who you are, instead of proving who you are. Don’t become me, son. Don’t walk around with hate and anger. Be the man I never could be.

I love you for you. Your worth is conditional on nothing.

Your father,

John.

The crinkle of the paper sounds deafening as she folds the letter back into its folded form. Not knowing what to say, I let the silence grow between us as I replay his words over in my mind.

Your worth is conditional on nothing.

“You okay?” she finally asks, her words hoarse and breaking me out of my thoughts. Aren’t these the words I always longed to hear?

“I have been searching for his acceptance my whole life, and now he gives it to me, but I have no idea what to do with it.” I move to the table and take a seat next to her.

“What were you expecting?” she asks and I have to stop to think about my answer. It’s not that I’m dissatisfied with what he wrote, but more so of what I don’t feel reading it. An instant gratification that he was wrong and I was right doesn’t wash over me. His words don’t take away the hurt he had weaved into my life. They almost seem too perfect.

“Peace,” I finally reply, knowing in that moment my mother was right. My father apologizing was never going to set me free all the wrong doings he had done. Nor would it make it all okay. Letting my past control how I lived was never about him, but me. Yes, my need to feel worthy stemmed from him, but I had the power all along to let it go. Only I didn’t see it. Until now.