Ashes And Ink

A story told through the journal entries of a dying man.

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[Journal Entry: March 2, 2024]

The doctor said six months. Maybe more, maybe less. Stage four. Liver. I asked if it hurt to die from this, and he nodded like someone who's told too many people the same thing. I automatically knew this was my karma for what I did to you, son.

I came home and opened the old drawer where I kept this journal. Ruth, your mother, used to buy me a new one every year. She's been gone almost a decade, but I found this one half-full, leather-bound and soft around the edges. Like it's been waiting. Waiting for me to start my confessions.

I've done many things in my life—some good, some gray, some black as soot. One, in particular, has followed me like a shadow at noon because I placed harm upon you. Not physically, but once the news hits you, wind might be knocked out of your chest by my betrayal.

If you ever find this, Aaron, I didn't write it for forgiveness. I don't deserve that. I just wanted it written in my own hand before the earth took me.

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[Journal Entry: March 9, 2024]

It started on a Tuesday. Everything stupid does.

You were out of town—work, one of those endless conferences of yours. Emily came by the house with that banana bread she always made for Ruth's birthdays. She claimed she missed having someone to talk to, which I believed because there were times I had to beg Ruth to get off the phone with Emily. Emily and I sat on the porch after she cried in my arms. I poured her a glass of bourbon I shouldn't have offered.

We talked about Ruth. About you. About how alone we both felt sometimes, though we didn't say it quite like that.

The thing about guilt is, it doesn't feel like guilt right away. It feels like a choice you'll explain later. A moment that was always going to happen because some part of you wanted it to.

We gazed into each other's eyes and kissed that night. Nothing more. I wish I could say it stopped there.

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[Journal Entry: April 1, 2024]

The transaction of two forbidden souls happened. Once.

One time, in this house, with your wedding photo in the hallway like a ghost watching us. Haunting me for the sinful things I did with a married woman who happened to also be your wife.

I don't know what we thought we were doing going behind your back like that. We barely spoke afterward because we both were thinking of you. Emily cried, I drank, and we both knew we had done something that couldn't be undone.

I wanted to blame the cancer when I found out. Wanted to say I was unraveling already, but this was before the diagnosis. This was just me.

You always looked up to me. I was proud of that. Proud to say I was your father. I should have protected you better—from the world, from pain. Instead, I was the source of this pain.

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[Journal Entry: April 19, 2024]

Emily came by again. She doesn't know I'm dying. I didn't tell her. What's the point? I didn't even tell you, and you're my son. The man I am doesn't want to look weak. Even though I am weak for hurting you, son.

Emily asked if I ever thought about that night we shared. I told her I think about it every damn day. She admitted that she does too. But she's trying to move forward, for your sake.

You love her so much, Aaron. I see it in your eyes, in the way you hold her hand when you think no one's watching.

She's pregnant. You told me over the phone that day a few hours prior to her showing up to see me with a voice full of joy. My first grandchild. God help me, I wondered for a second if there was a chance it could be mine. But it's not. The math doesn't work. I counted the weeks.

Still, I hate that the thought even entered my head. That's the kind of man I became.

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[Journal Entry: May 7, 2024]

I dream about your mother sometimes. Ruth never speaks to me in the dreams. She just looks at me like she used to when I came home drunk in the early years of our relationship before you were born. Like she was trying to decide if love could survive the disappointment. Your mother was the reason I grew into the man I was. The one that you were so proud to call your father. With her gone, a part of me died with her.

Aaron, I raised you to be better than me. Stronger. Kinder. And you are. You are everything I wanted to be. That's why I never told you. I couldn't bear to watch that light go out in your eyes.

This journal, though—I couldn't take it with me. It's my reckoning.

When I'm gone, you'll find it in the old drawer beside Ruth's letters. You'll know. And then it's up to you what comes next.

I can't ask for grace. I just wanted the truth to outlive me.

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[Journal Entry: June 1, 2024]

The pain's worse. The doctors offer more morphine. I take less than they suggest. I want my mind clear. I want the truth to sting.

Emily won't come by anymore. I think she suspects I've written something. She avoids your eyes sometimes. That's not your fault. It's mine.

I'm not afraid to die. I'm afraid you'll hate me more than the truth deserves. I was your father. I should've been a wall between you and hurt. Instead, I was the breach.

If you're reading this... I'm sorry, son.

I loved you more than I loved my own salvation.

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[Final Entry: June 10, 2024]

I think this is the end. My breath is a slow tide, coming and going. I don't have much left.

Aaron, you were the best thing I ever made in this world. If you can, live a life better than mine. Let the rot die with me.

And when the baby's born, hold them close. Call them something that means light. Remind yourself the past doesn't own the future. Not if you don't let it.

Forgive me, or don't. But know this:

I never stopped loving you.

Dad.