Page 134 of The Prodigal Son

“Now,” Caleb adds.

Truett puts his hands up in surrender.

“Boys, please,” Mom pleads. “I don’t want anyone fighting today. Hasn’t your brother been through enough?”

“Then tellhimto leave,” Luke says with spite.

“I’m not here to hurt anybody,” my father cries, his voice shaking as he tries to get a look at me. Caleb and Luke keep blocking his path. “I heard what happened. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“He’s fine,” Adam bites back. “We’re taking care of him. Now leave.”

My dad tilts his head to get a glimpse of me. There is a heaviness in my chest at seeing him again.

Caleb steps toward our dad with a look of hatred on his face. “Mom, call the police.”

Before I know it, I’m stepping forward with my hand out. “Stop.”

Everyone looks at me. And I meet their gazes with empathy. “Please. No cops or fighting. Just…let me talk to him for a minute.”

Caleb’s nostrils flare with anger and Luke’s jaw clenches, but I see Adam give me a gentle nod. My brothers would fight my wars for me if they could, probably to make up for all the times they never did, but I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a man now, and I refuse to solve every problem with fighting.

If Truett wants to talk, I’ll listen.

But I have some things to say too.

“We’ll be right outside,” Adam says with a hand on my shoulder as I nod toward him.

“If you need us, just holler,” Caleb says before placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

Luke gives me a silent nod before he leaves. I hear the back door close as the four of them escape to the patio, leaving my dad and me alone in the dining room.

As he stands before me, I take in his appearance. He looks nothing like I remember. Thinner. Older. Broken. Honestly, with that shaky breathing and gaunt appearance, he looks like he’s standing at death’s door. I honestly wonder how much time he has left in this condition. The past few years have been hard on him.

“Let’s go into the living room,” I say. As he walks to the other side of the house, I notice the shakiness in his steps. I had myself mentally prepared to take the brunt of his judgment and wrath, but now I see this old man can hardly stand on his own.

He has no power over me.

With a shudder in his limbs, he sits down in the old leather armchair by the fireplace and I settle onto the right side of the couch. I have no idea if I’m supposed to talk first or he is, so I sit in silence and wait.

When he looks at me, I try to define the expression on his face. It’s not anger like I expected. Then I remember that phone call he made to me a couple weeks ago. He told me he was proud of me. Nothing that I expected with him is happening and it has me feeling guarded.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.

“I’m fine.” There’re those two words again. The biggest lie of them all.

But it’s not like I’m about to open up to this guy.

“Is he…”

“He’s fine,” I reply. “How did you hear about it?”

My dad scrubs a hand over his face. “I got a call. They told me who it was. I’ve met him before, you know? He’s a good man.”

Hearing my dad talk about Jensen sends chills down my spine. “And you know about us?”

He looks up. “I heard.”

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