Chapter 87 Some peace
I hear Michael’s voice again. Calm, but there’s something else in it now. Something steadier. Firmer.
“I’m not happy there.”
The words travel down the hallway clearly enough that my breath catches in my chest. For a second, I don’t move. I just stand there beside the door, listening.
“I haven’t been for a long time.”
There’s a quiet determination in his voice that makes my throat tighten. I know Michael well enough by now to hear the effort it must’ve taken to say that out loud. The courage behind it. His dad doesn’t respond immediately. Then I hear him repeat the word, like it’s something foreign.
“Happiness?”
There’s a short, humorless scoff.
“What exactly does happiness have to do with any of this?”
His tone carries a kind of tired dismissal, like the concept itself is naïve.
“It’s work, Michael. It’s not meant to entertain you. It’s meant to give you a sense of accomplishment. Stability. A comfortable life. That’s the purpose.” A pause. “Happiness,” he continues flatly, “is rarely part of the equation.”
My fingers curl slightly against the doorframe. Then Michael answers.
“That’s not true.”
His voice isn’t raised, if anything, it’s quieter. But it lands with more weight.
“You can have both,” he says. “You should have both.”
A brief silence follows.
“And I want that. But I’m never going to find it if I keep trapping myself in that place.”
The air shifts instantly. Even from here I can hear the offense that sparks in his father’s voice.
“That place,” he repeats sharply. “That place happens to be the company I spent thirty years building.”
The words come faster now, edged with wounded pride. “You’re fortunate you were even given a position there in the first place. Most people would consider it an extraordinary opportunity. You’re well aware the only reason you were entrusted with that role so early in your career is because of our connection.”
Silence stretches for a moment. And then Michael says quietly, “I don’t feel very fortunate.”
There’s another pause...longer this time. When Michael speaks again, there's something deeper that sits in his voice. Something that sounds older than the conversation itself.
“And to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what connection you’re referring to.”
I feel my chest tighten as he continues.
“Half the time, you seem to forget I exist.”
The words are delivered without anger. Just a simple, devastating honesty.
“And the other half, I get the distinct impression you wish I wasn’t tied to you at all.”
The hallway goes quiet again. Then Michael speaks one more time. “I know the adoption was my mother’s idea.” His voice softens slightly when he says it. “I made peace with that a long time ago. And somewhere along the way, I probably should’ve made peace with the fact that there was never any version of me you were going to be satisfied with.”
For a moment after he finishes speaking, the apartment falls completely silent. The kind of silence that feels heavy. Pressurized. I can almost picture them standing there, Michael steady and composed, his father staring at him like he’s trying to decide whether this is a joke.
Then his father lets out a short, incredulous breath. “So that’s what this is about?” There’s a rustle of fabric, like he’s shifting his weight.
“And what exactly do you want, Michael?”
His tone turns sharp again, but now there’s something mocking threaded through it.
“Do you want a heartfelt apology? A long overdue father–son bonding moment?” he continues, the sarcasm thick enough to hear from across the apartment. “Should I sit you down, tell you how proud I am of the man you’ve become? Maybe we could even go for a walk in the park afterward,” he adds dryly. “Feed the ducks. Talk about our feelings.”
My jaw tightens before I even realize it.
“I’m trying to understand what you think you’re missing here,” he goes on, voice colder now. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve been given more than enough.”
Something unpleasant twists in my chest. It’s a strange feeling. I don’t know this man. I’ve never met him. And yet, listening to him speak, I feel genuine dislike settle into my bones. The kind that arrives fast and quietly and refuses to move.
For a moment, Michael doesn’t answer. The silence stretches long enough that I start to wonder if the conversation has finally collapsed under its own weight. Then I hear him speak again.
“Thank you.”
The words are so calm that even I blink.
“I mean that,” he continues. “For everything.”
There’s no sarcasm in his voice. No bitterness. Just a quiet steadiness.
“I know I’ve been given opportunities most people never get. I know the life I’ve had came with doors that were already open for me before I even knew how to knock. And I’m grateful for that. I probably always will be.”
He exhales softly. “But I think I’d like to stop the debt from growing.”
“So no,” he says gently. “I won’t be coming back to work.”
There’s a stillness after that, like the words have landed somewhere solid. Michael speaks again before his father can interrupt. “And maybe I won’t find some grand, meaningful career that makes me happy every day,” he admits. “Maybe that doesn’t exist. But at the very least, I might find some peace.”
His father doesn’t respond right away. When he finally does, his voice is colder than before.
“You’re making a very serious mistake.”
The words are clipped. Precise. “And when the novelty of this little rebellion wears off and you realize exactly what you’ve walked away from,” he pauses slightly, “...don’t come running back expecting everything to be waiting for you.”
Michael doesn’t hesitate. “I won’t.”
It’s quiet again after that. Then the his father scoffs under his breath. Footsteps follow, sharp against the floor as he moves toward the door. I hear the handle turn, the door opens. And a second later, it shuts. I stay where I am for a while after the door closes.
Listening.
Waiting.
The apartment settles back into silence, the kind that feels oddly hollow. I keep my hand loosely on the bedroom door, staring down the hallway, expecting to hear Michael’s footsteps coming back.
But they don’t. A minute passes, then another.
Eventually it becomes obvious there’s no point pretending I wasn’t listening. If he comes back, he’ll see it on my face anyway.
Still, several more minutes slip by. And he doesn’t come. So I move, I step quietly into the hallway, following the path his father’s voice had been traveling earlier. The apartment feels strangely bigger now. When I round the corner into the living room, I see him.
He's sitting on the couch.
Leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. He’s staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, like his mind is still somewhere inside the conversation that just ended.
He doesn’t turn when I appear. Doesn’t react when I walk closer. I stop for a moment, just looking at him. Then I sit down beside him.
I don’t say anything.
I don’t reach out.
The quiet between us isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just there. Thick, patient, waiting for whatever comes next. A couple of minutes pass like that. Then Michael shifts.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He leans sideways until his head comes to rest in my lap. His arms slide around my waist, holding onto me without saying a word. I lift my hand and start combing my fingers gently through his hair, slow and steady, the way I know he likes.
And for a while, that’s all either of us does.