Page 18 of October: The Odd Ones, Stories of Love and Grovel

Joseph just kept holding my hand and tell me to breathe, but I felt I was crumbling.

No matter how much I hated Father, how much rage I carried, how many nights I spent trying to silence the voice in my head that sounded like him, there was still a part of me that ached. Not out of forgiveness. Not out of nostalgia. But out of something much sadder: a love that had nowhere left to go.

Buried deep inside me was a boy I had spent years trying to outgrow. A boy who still existed in quiet corners of my heart, clutching drawings with uneven lines and bold colors, drawings he made just for his dad. The same drawings he found days later, stuffed into the garbage like they meant nothing and yet that boy kept drawing, just in case.

He left notes in the margins of books and beside coffee cups in broken French, halting Spanish, early German—languages he had just started learning because he wanted to impress him. Because maybe, maybe, a clever phrase would spark some pride. A reaction. A smile. Anything.

He memorized the weight of his father's footsteps in the hallway—the pace, the rhythm—so he could time it perfectly, so he could be standing at the door, smiling, eager, ready to be seen. The boy who stayed up too late with a flashlight, just in case he passed by. The boy who beamed when he was calle.

"too sensitive,"

or mocked for being "girlish,"

or .

"gay"—not because the words didn't hurt, but because he was paying attention. Because for a moment, he wasn't invisible.

That boy—naive, desperate, loyal, always hoping, he still lived inside me. And tonight, he shattered. Because now I knew for certain: the approval he chased didn't exist. It never did. It was a ghost I was trained to chase, and in the process, I had lost everything real.

I heard a soft inhale beside me.

"I know,"

Joseph said.

"Trust me. I get it."

"I'm pathetic,"

I muttered, my voice hoarse, eyes burning with unshed tears.

"Why am I even emotional about this? After everything he did... everything he didn't do. Why the hell do I still care?"

Joseph didn't flinch. He didn't rush to fill the silence with false comfort or cheap words. He just looked at me, really looked at me, like he could see the bruised places I never let anyone touch.

"You're not pathetic,"

he said finally, his voice low and steady.

"You're grieving."

I blinked, chest tightening. Grieving?

"This isn't weakness, Thomas. This is the end of hope—for him to change. It's the death of whatever part of you was still holding out for something more. For the apology that never came. For the love he was never capable of giving. For a father you invented to survive the one you had."

I felt something split open inside me.

"And..."

he added, quieter now.

"it's the death of your marriage, too. You've been holding that truth at arm's length like it might bite, but it's here. It's been here for a long time."

His words didn't just land—they pierced. Sharp and unrelenting. They went straight through my chest, cracking every illusion I had so carefully constructed just to keep breathing.

I ignored the elephant in the room. Stepped around it like it wasn't pressing its full weight into every conversation, every moment we pretended to be fine. I painted it invisible. Told myself, Once we take care of Dad, everything will fall back into place. Once things calm down, we'll be okay. But deep down, I knew the truth. I had lost her. It was my fault.

All of it. Me.

The days I spent in the hotel after the fallout were unbearable. The walls felt like they were closing in, like they knew I didn't belong there. Not anymore. The air was heavy and stale, like every breath I took was borrowed. There were moments I'd catch my reflection in the mirror and not recognize the man looking back—tired, unshaven, hollow. Like someone who had been sleepwalking through his own life and finally woke up to find everything he loved had slipped through his fingers.

And the idea of living without her... it choked me. Without her laughter echoing from the kitchen. Without the sound of her brushing her teeth in the other room while humming that off-key song she always liked. Without her hands tangled in mine when the world got too loud. Without her perfume clinging to my shirts long after she'd gone. GOD, her unique scent!

Without the warmth of her beside me in bed, grounding me, anchoring me—especially when life turned cold. The absence of her wasn't just silence. It was a scream—constant, echoing, merciless, and every time I tried to breathe, that thought crushed my lungs all over again.

She was home. And I destroyed that. Me and no one else. Joseph stepped in closer. He didn't hug me. He didn't offer sympathy I couldn't carry. Instead, he gripped my shoulders with both hands, firm, grounding, impossible to ignore. I looked up, met his eyes.

"Listen to me,"

he said. "

I know it feels like the end of your world, but maybe not, your life with october, it is her to decide but when it comes to your father, Thomas, I'll be your dad. In all the ways your father never was. I'll show up. I'll be there when it matters, and even when it doesn't. I'll check in, not because I have to, but because I want to know how you're doing. I'll call you out when you're wrong, challenge you when you're slipping, and I'll still be there the next day—no matter what. I'm not promising to be perfect. But I am promising not to leave.

"I'll be the one who cheered on you when you were eight,"

he continued, quieter now.

"The one who saw your drawings and said, 'That's amazing, buddy, draw me another.' The one who taped them to the fridge, not the one who threw them in the trash like your joy was an inconvenience."

I closed my eyes to keep the tears from falling.

"I'll be the one who tells you it's okay to cry when you're twelve and the world feels too big, too loud, too cruel. When you start to think something's wrong with you for feeling too much. For caring too deeply."

Joseph's voice softened, but the conviction in it only grew.

"I'll be the one who reminds you at seventeen, when everything in you is screaming that love makes you weak, that you're not broken. That wanting to be loved isn't weakness. That tenderness doesn't make you soft. It makes you human. It makes you strong."

My throat tightened, something like a sob trying to crawl out of my chest.

"And I will be the one to remind you, as an adult, that it is not only okay but sometimes necessary to start over. To begin again, even when it feels impossible. I'll remind you that you are not defined by the pain of your past or the wounds left by an abusive childhood. You have the right to rebuild yourself, piece by piece, from the ashes of everything that tried to break you.

You can choose to become someone new—someone who is not shaped by fear or silence, but by strength and self-awareness. I'll be there to help you learn how to recognize your own emotions, to name them without shame, and to express them with clarity and courage. Because healing isn't about forgetting what happened; it's about learning how to live beyond it, and knowing you don't have to do that alone."

"But October?"

His voice shifted, harder now but not cruel. It was the kind of tone that left no room for argument.

"She's my princess. My blood. My priority. I've watched her hurt, and I've held her through it. So I don't care how sorry you are, or how broken you feel, or how much you wish you could turn back time. None of that matters now."

He stepped closer, eyes locked on mine, unwavering.

"You'll do what she wants. Not what you want. Not what you think is right. She decides. If she gives you a chance to fix it, you'll move heaven and hell to make it right. You'll prove yourself every day, in every way, until she says you've done enough. And if she doesn't want that—if she tells you to walk away—then you will. No second chances. No arguments. No unfinished goodbyes. You'll respect her choice, even if it kills you."

He paused. "Got it?"

My eyes burned, stinging with everything I couldn't say. Regret. Shame. Hope I wasn't sure I deserved. I nodded, slow and stiff, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. My heart felt like it was collapsing in on itself, but somehow still beating.

"Yes, sir,"

I whispered, barely louder than breath.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Sir'? What am I, a Civil War reenactor? Should I fetch my monocle and start talking about the good ol' days? Call me Joe, Bass Boss,"

and he laughed at his own joke.

Oh God..

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