Chapter 14 - THE BIRTHDAY WITHOUT A HOUSE
Daniel turned thirty-two at a small Italian restaurant in Santa Monica.
I was not invited.
At first.
Three days before, he texted:
I'm having dinner Friday. Six people. No party. If you want to come, I'd like you there. No pressure.
I stared at the message.
Then showed Richard.
He looked annoyed.
“You know I'm your attorney, not your emotional-support animal.”
“You're cheaper than therapy.”
“Not remotely.”
I went to therapy too.
The therapist asked:
“What are you afraid happens if you accept?”
“That he thinks everything is fixed.”
“What are you afraid happens if you decline?”
“That he stops asking.”
That was honest.
I accepted.
The restaurant had no private room.
No mansion.
No friends impressed by property.
Daniel wore a simple navy jacket.
Joan came.
Two coworkers.
A childhood friend.
No Emily.
When I arrived, Daniel stood.
For one strange second, I remembered him standing behind me with his fist raised.
My body remembered before my mind did.
I stopped.
Daniel noticed.
He did not approach.
“Dad?”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He waited until I chose to move closer.
That mattered.
Dinner was ordinary.
Daniel talked about work.
His new apartment.
Cooking badly.
At dessert, his friend asked:
“Didn't your dad used to have that insane place in Beverly Hills?”
Daniel glanced at me.
Then answered:
“Yeah. He sold it.”
“Man, I thought that was going to be yours.”
The old Daniel might have joked:
So did I.
Instead, he said:
“It was never mine.”
No drama.
Five words.
I looked down at my coffee because I did not want the table watching my face.
After dinner, Daniel walked me outside.
“Was that okay?”
“What?”
“The house question.”
“You answered it.”
“I've had practice.”
We stood near the curb.
Then he said:
“I’m not asking about your will.”
“Good.”
“I just want you to know I don't think about it anymore.”
“That is probably not completely true.”
He laughed.
“Fair.”
Then:
“But I'm trying not to make your future my financial plan.”
That was better.
I put my hand in my coat pocket.
The brass key was there.
I had brought it without knowing why.
For one stupid second, I considered handing it to him.
Symbolic forgiveness.
A movie ending.
Instead I kept it.
Daniel didn't need a key to a house that no longer existed for either of us.
And I didn't need a gesture large enough to make two years disappear.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He hugged me.
Carefully.
May you like
I let him.
That was enough for one night.
