Page 20 of October: The Odd Ones, Stories of Love and Grovel

My parents still stayed with me. Honestly, I had begged them to. I wasn't subtle about it. After everything that had unravelled, the scandal, the fallout, the nights I didn't trust myself to hold it together, I needed them. Not just to help with the kids, but to be near. To remind me that I still had a foundation beneath me, even if the walls had cracked.

And they didn't hesitate. Not even for a second. My mom picked up where I had dropped things, meals, laundry, life. My dad, well... my dad surprised me. I thought he would come in swinging. Literally. The day he told me he was going to Thomas's office, I braced myself. I was convinced he'd barge in, crash through the doors and flatten him with one punch. My dad's tall—broad, commanding. When he's angry, he looks like someone you don't want to be on the wrong side of.

But that's the thing about my father. Underneath all that strength, he's gentle. Measured. He knows exactly how much force to use, and when to use none at all. When he came back from that meeting, he didn't storm in. He sat beside me on the porch and calmly told me everything that happened. Word for word. No embellishment. No drama. Just facts, and though he didn't say it outright, I could hear something in his voice, something like reluctant understanding.

That subtle shift in Thomas... the way he stood a little straighter, looked a little less lost. My father's fingerprints were all over it, not in control but in care. He hadn't forced it. He hadn't assumed. He asked me first—quietly, respectfully—if it was okay. If I was comfortable with him stepping into that space. Not as some savior, but maybe as a mentor. A guide. A steady hand on Thomas's shoulder when everything else was falling apart.

And of course, I was fine with it.

Then my dad started taking him on these mysterious "outings."

At first, I didn't think much of it. I figured it was part of their awkward father-in-law/broken-son-in-law bonding. But then it became regular—once a week, sometimes twice. They'd leave early, come back late. My dad was tight-lipped about it, which wasn't unusual. But Thomas? He got oddly vague.

Every time I asked where they'd been, he'd give me that distracted half-smile.

"Just out. Talking. You know, guy stuff."

"Guy stuff?"

I repeated once, raising an eyebrow.

"That's not suspicious at all."

He'd just laugh it off, but I noticed the way he'd quickly change the subject or suddenly get busy helping the kids with something.

"You guys go hiking or something?"

I asked one day.

"Running? ...Fishing?"

Thomas froze like I'd accused him of burying bodies in the woods.

"God, no. No fishing,"

he said quickly, almost too quickly.

I narrowed my eyes. "Okayy."

One morning, curiosity finally got the better of me. I found my dad in the kitchen, buttering toast with that slow, deliberate rhythm he always used when something was on his mind. The radio was low, murmuring an old jazz tune, and the scent of coffee lingered in the air. I leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching him for a beat before I spoke.

"Where are you going today?"

I asked, trying to sound casual, like I wasn't already wondering too much.

He didn't look up.

"Somewhere."

I frowned, pushing off the counter just slightly. "Dad!"

He glanced over at me, his expression calm and unreadable. "What?"

I didn't press him. I sighe.

"Whatever!"

then i added.

"Jimmy's getting better," I said,

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah. I noticed. I'm glad."

He paused, then looked at me a little more closely.

"But what about you? Are you getting better too?"

I looked away, the answer already sitting in my chest.

"Depends on the day. Like a wave,"

I murmured.

"Some days I'm suffocated by pain and grief. Other days... I'm adapting."

He nodded quietly, letting my words hang between us. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"I still can't believe my marriage is really over. All that's left now is signing the divorce papers. I never thought it would end like this."

He didn't respond immediately. Just stared at the slice of toast in his hand like it had become something unfamiliar. Then, without turning toward me, he said it.

"I can."

I blinked.

"What? Dad...what do you mean, you can?"

I asked, confusion and a hint of defensiveness creeping into my voice.

He finally set the toast down, his shoulders rising and falling with a long breath. But he didn't say anything.

He looked at me then, really looked at me with the kind of sadness only a parent who's been through hell can carry. Like he'd been holding this truth for a long time, waiting for the right moment to hand it over, and maybe, that moment had come. anything right away. Then, without looking away from the toast, he asked softly.

"Do you want to hear some harsh truth?"

I nodded. "Always."

"You wear your heart outside your body, October. Always have. You love loudly, fiercely, like it's oxygen, like you'd set yourself on fire just to keep someone else warm. And him?"

He gave a small shrug.

"Thomas gave you birthday presents and polite conversation. A kind word, a nice smile, and I think... he believed that was enough. That was his version of love."

My throat tightened.

"I've always wondered..."

He hesitated, then leaned a little closer.

"Why did you love him? I'm really asking. Because there must have been something to love there. Something real. Right?"

I looked down at the floor, the question echoing in the quiet between us. And I realized he wasn't trying to prove a point. He wasn't trying to diminish what I'd had with Thomas. He was trying to understand. Trying to make sense of the heartbreak through my eyes. I swallowed the knot forming in my throat. His words weren't cruel; they were honest. And they hit deeper than I expected.

"I think... I think it's hard to explain,"

I said, voice quieter now.

"Because yes, he got worse over time. More detached. Complacent. Like he just assumed I'd always be there, no matter how absent he became."

I paused, gathering my thoughts.

"But there were moments. Moments where he tried. Where I felt loved. Or at least, I interpreted it that way."

I gave a small smile, wistful, almost embarrassed.

"He had this little carnet,"

I said quietly, a nostalgic smile tugging at my lips.

"A notebook. Just for me. He kept lists—my favorite flowers, my coffee order, songs I liked, things I hated. Silly stuff too—like how I preferred soft socks over fuzzy ones, or how I hated people who chew gum with their mouths open. He's always loved writing lists—it calms him down, gives him a sense of order when things feel messy."

My dad gave a small, thoughtful nod, still listening.

"When my car broke down, he bought me a brand-new car. Not flashy. Not extravagant. Just... reliable. Safe. With heated seats, because he knew I was always cold."

I smiled faintly, the kind that aches a little.

"He didn't make a big deal about it. He never brought it up again. Left the keys on the counter with a sticky note that said, 'You won't be stuck in the snow again.'"

I laughed quietly, the sound tinged with nostalgia.

"There was this time, after Alice was born... I was drowning. Between the feedings and the mess and the endless laundry—it felt like I was disappearing under the weight of it all, and I wanted help, God, I needed help. But I didn't ask. I never did. I just kept pushing through it, telling myself it was my job to handle everything."

I paused, the memory settling over me like a soft blanket.

"And then, one day, a woman showed up at the door with a mop and a smile. He'd hired a cleaning service."

My dad's eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise.

"And once..."

I added, the memory hitting me like a small, warm wave.

"I got up in the middle of the night to get water and slammed my pinky toe into the hallway console so hard I cried. I didn't even tell him—just limped back to bed and figured that was the end of it. The next day, he left work early and had motion-sensor lights installed along the hallway baseboards. So whenever I got up in the dark, soft lights would turn on automatically. He said, 'I don't want you walking in pain again, even half-asleep.'"

I shook my head, eyes stinging a little.

"When I was pregnant with Lola, it was rough. Complications came early, and before I knew it, I was on strict bed rest, and then one morning, I woke up to the sound of boxes being moved. Desk drawers opening. Cables being plugged in. He was relocating his entire home office, printer, files, even that giant chair he loved, right into our bedroom, which coming from, it is huge. He brought me water every hour, tracked my meals, had lists of dos and donts for this difficult pregancy."

My father didn't speak. He just watched me, letting the truth sit between us.

"So... anytime I felt neglected,"

I admitted.

"I clung to those moments. Those little things. Because I needed to believe he loved me. That maybe I was just too emotional, too needy, too much."

I swallowed hard, tears pricking.

"But eventually... it wasn't enough. He stopped trying. Stopped seeing me. Work took over everything. And I knew—I knew I was in a competition I would never win. But I accepted it. I told myself, 'No one is perfect.' And I kept silent. I kept shrinking."

My voice cracked.

"I never told him how deeply hurt I was. How lonely I felt in our own home. Not until Laura."

My dad's brow furrowed.

"That's when everything boiled over,"

I said, more firmly now. My voice didn't shake this time—it was steady, like I'd repeated the truth enough times to finally believe it.

"It wasn't just about work anymore. It was her. The way he not only prioritized his job... but prioritized her. The way he left me—on my birthday—to go save her cat."

I paused, and for a long moment, the only sound was the ticking of the kitchen clock.

"That was when I realized I'd been clinging to memories. To moments. To these quiet little offerings that I had treated like proof of love."

I looked at my dad, my voice smaller now.

"But what if they weren't proof at all? What if he did all of it out of duty? Out of habit? What if he loved the idea of being good to me more than he actually loved me?"

My dad didn't rush to fill the silence. He just stood there, letting me say what I needed to.

"So... do you mind me spending time with him?"

he asked, his tone gentle but serious.

"Because listen, October—if it bothers you, just say the word, and I'll stop. No questions, no hesitation."

I blinked, caught off guard by the weight in his voice.

"Stop? No, Dad. Of course not. I'm actually... grateful. After everything with his father, and him going low contact with his mom, I don't want him to feel completely alone."

My dad let out a breath—not quite relief, but something close to it—and looked at me, eyes steady and open.

"I told you and asked your permission because I want you to remember something,"

he said.

"You are my choice, October. Always."

His voice dropped lower, more thoughtful.

"But two things can be true. I'm still angry at him—angry for how he hurt you, how blind he was. But... I also feel sorry for him. Maybe because I see myself in him."

At that moment, my mom appeared behind him, quiet as ever. She didn't say a word. Just wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, rested her chin against his shoulder for a beat, then grabbed her mug of tea and left the room. Her silence said everything—solidarity, support, understanding.

I looked back at my dad.

"How so?" I asked.

He nodded slowly, as if turning over a memory in his mind that hadn't been touched in years.

"I had the worst parents you can imagine,"

he said.

"Just like him. But unlike Thomas, I had my uncle. Uncle Robert. If it weren't for him..."

He paused, eyes clouding over.

"I literally wouldn't be alive today."

"What?"

I asked softly.

He raised a hand.

"Don't worry, baby. It was a long time ago. And I'm okay now. Have been for a while. But only because I had someone who stepped in. Who showed me a different way to be a man."

"My parents, God, they were a mess. People see pictures, hear a few stories, and assume it was just strict parenting or old-fashioned discipline. But it wasn't that. It was chaos. The kind of chaos that teaches you early on how to flinch before you're hit. How to disappear in a room while still standing in it."

He paused, then let out a breath that felt like it came from somewhere deep.

"Physical abuse? Honestly... that was the easy part. Preferable, even. Bruises fade. You learn to hide the welts, work around the pain. But the emotional stuff? The verbal cuts? They linger. You can't see them, so no one rushes to treat them. They just... stay."

His eyes found mine, and I saw the boy he must have been once.

The one who didn't get hugged enough.

The one who was always trying to be enough.

"People often believe that once you grow up, you suddenly become an adult—like flipping a switch or crossing an invisible finish line.

They think you can neatly pack up your childhood experiences, tuck them away like an old box in the attic, and move on with your life as if nothing ever happened.

But the truth is far more complicated.

Trauma doesn't simply disappear or fade into the background.

It seeps deep into your body, embedding itself in your nervous system, rewiring how you react to the world.

It changes the way your brain chemistry works, shaping your fears, your hopes, and the way you connect with others—often without you even realizing it.

It's not just memories locked away in a dusty box; it's a living, breathing part of you that can surface in the smallest moments—a flinch at a sharp tone, a sudden rush of anxiety, or an invisible wall that keeps you from fully trusting someone.

Growing up doesn't erase those wounds; it teaches you how to live with them, sometimes without even knowing you're still carrying the weight."

He gave a short, bitter laugh, dry and sharp.

"Wouldn't that be great?"

I said, my voice thick with sarcasm.

"If you could just 'move on' from abuse the moment you turn eighteen? Like—poof! You're grown now. Suddenly emotionally mature. You can analyze your trauma with perfect clarity, set boundaries like a therapist, and stop the panic attacks with deep breathing and gratitude journaling."

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping.

"People act like growing up gives you some magic override button. Like age alone rewires your nervous system, undoes the fear, the shame, the twisted logic you grew up swallowing like air. But it doesn't. It never does."

I looked at him, my voice softening but still raw.

"Childhood trauma doesn't just disappear because you can name it now. It hides in your reflexes. In your triggers. In how quickly your voice shakes when someone raises theirs. In how fast you say sorry when you didn't even do anything wrong."

I folded my arms tightly across my chest.

"It shows up when someone you love is kind to you, and you don't know how to receive it without flinching. It shows up when you sabotage good things because somewhere deep down, you still believe you don't deserve them."

I paused, heart pounding.

"So yeah, it would be wonderful if you could just outgrow pain. But that's not how it works. You don't outgrow it. You outlive it—if you're lucky. If you're willing to face it. If you're brave enough to stop pretending it didn't happen."

I didn't speak. I didn't offer advice or comfort too early. I just let him speak, let him empty what he'd carried for too long.

"Because no,"

he continued, his voice a little hoarser now.

"that emotional manipulation? The way love is weaponized—held just out of reach, offered only when you perform, when you're quiet, when you're good. That constant urge to appease, to win approval. The fury that grows when you keep getting rejected by the very people who were supposed to love you first and most. That kind of damage... it doesn't just hurt. It rewrites you. Piece by piece. Until you're not sure which parts are real and which are just survival."

He looked away for a second, blinking hard.

"If it weren't for Uncle Robert—God rest his soul—I don't know where I'd be. Or who I'd be. He took me in when no one else did. Made me feel seen when I thought I was invisible. He taught me how to hold a hammer, how to drive, how to breathe when the walls closed in. He never said it out loud, but he chose me, and that... saved me."

I didn't think. I just stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. He froze for a second, like the gesture caught him off guard. Then, his arms closed around me in a firm, warm hug—one of those embraces that says everything words never quite can. He chuckled softly into my shoulder.

"We really are a huggy family, huh? Must be all the generational trauma. Squeezes out through physical affection."

I chuckled.

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, his gaze steady but filled with a raw honesty that cut through the air between us. "So yeah,"

he said slowly.

"I see myself in Thomas. I know what it means to finally look at the person who hurt you—your abuser—and tell them, without a doubt, that they've lost you forever. It might seem like a small thing to some, maybe even insignificant, but I promise you—it's not. It changes something deep inside you. It's the moment when you reclaim your power, your voice, and your life. And more than that, I want to be there for him, if that's okay with you. I want someone to stand by him, to guide him through the storm, and to help him find a better way. To kind of pay it forward, like someone once did for me, so are you sure, it is okay for you?"

I nodded slowly, feeling my heart swell with a complicated mix of emotions—sadness for the pain we all carried, gratitude for the healing that felt possible, and a fragile flicker of hope for the future we might still shape.

"Yeah, Dad,"

I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"It's more than okay."

My dad's expression softened.

"You've got your mother's big heart, you know."

I smiled faintly.

"I wish I had your sharp tongue, though."

He chuckled, a spark of pride in his eyes.

"Excuse you. That's not a tongue—it's a finely honed weapon. Took me years to forge."

I laughed softly and rested my head on his shoulder. For a second, I let myself breathe—not in the future, not in the past, just here.

"I love you, Dad. Thank you."

He didn't say anything right away, just pulled me into a hug, strong and quiet.