Page 114 of Racking Up Penalties
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The bell above the door jingles as we step into the quaint restaurant. The soft glow of pendant lights warms the space, and the scent of baked bread and simmering garlic mingles in the air, a comforting embrace.
It’s surprisingly down to earth considering I know how rich they are. They’re my mother’s parents but I can’t imagine either of my parents in a place like this.
“Over here, Ethan!” My grandpa’s voice, weathered with age yet robust with excitement, cuts through the symphony of clinking dishes and murmured conversations.
I guide Tessa through the maze of tables, each step measured, my heart thundering against my ribcage. She squeezes my hand, a silent promise of solidarity that steadies me. Our steps sync to the rhythm of her reassurance until we reach the corner booth where they wait.
“Grandma, Grandpa,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Look at you! All grown up!” Grandma stands, her arms open wide, ready to pull me into her world after years on the outskirts.
“Hi,” Tessa chimes in, her voice a buoyant note amidst my tangled emotions. She offers a handshake that Grandma bypasses for an enveloping hug.
“Please, call us Joan and Harold,” Grandpa says, his eyes crinkling with a smile as he shakes Tessa’s hand firmly.
We slide into the booth, the leather creaking under our weight. Small talk fills the spaces between sips of water and menu glances—courses, professors, and the latest hockey game I scored in. It feels surreal, like dipping your toes into familiar waters that once seemed lost forever.
“Your father… He made it difficult for us to see you growing up, Ethan,” Grandma begins, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. “But we never stopped caring about you.”
“Michael didn’t understand family the way we do,” Grandpa adds, his tone edged with regret and something fierce like protective love. “We always wanted to be part of your life. When we heard you’re no longer under Michael, we knew this was our chance.”
Their words, simple and honest, weave through the defenses I’ve built over the years. The resentment that had taken root within me starts to wither under their warmth, under the unspoken apologies that hang in the air like mist.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice tight with emotion. “It means a lot to hear that.”
Tessa’s hand finds mine under the table, a lifeline tethering me to the now. Her touch speaks volumes.
Grandma reaches across the table, her fingers brushing the back of my hand. “Ethan, we’ve missed you more than words can say,” she confesses, her voice quivering with a cocktail of emotions. The lines around her eyes deepen as she smiles, a testament to years of laughter and sorrow.
“Every birthday, every holiday that passed…” Grandpa’s voice trails off, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He clears his throat and continues, “We just wanted to be there for you. To watch you grow, to cheer you on.”
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat, realizing the magnitude of what I’ve missed out on — what they’ve missed out on. “I… I didn’t know,” I admit, the weight of years of misunderstanding suddenly pressing down on me.
Something else my dad has cost me.
“Let’s not dwell on the past.” Grandma gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “We’re here now, and that’s what matters. We want to be part of your life, Ethan, if you’ll let us.”
My gaze shifts to Tessa, seeking silent counsel. She offers me a reassuring smile, her hazel eyes shining with an earnestness that steadies my rattled nerves. I can see she’s touched by their sincerity, her shoulders relaxing as she observes the genuine affection emanating from my grandparents.
“It’s never too late to start over,” Tessa says, her voice soft but sure. Her innate optimism, always a beacon in my life, shines through her words, soothing the jagged edges of my hesitation.
“Starting over sounds good,” I reply, allowing myself to lean into this new beginning.
The conversation flows more easily after that like water finally breaking through a dam. We share stories and laugh over old photographs they’ve brought along, and the warmth around the table is palpable. It wraps around us, knitting together the fragments of a family long separated.
Tessa’s laughter, light and melodic, rises above the din of the restaurant as Grandma recounts a childhood anecdote about me. I watch her, captivated by the way joy animates her features, how she instinctively knows when to chime in or when to let silence speak.
“Thank you, Tessa,” Grandma says, reaching over to pat her hand. “For being here, for being Ethan’s rock.”
“Of course,” Tessa replies, her gaze flitting to me, and in that look, I find an anchor. She’s been my confidant, my co-conspirator, my constant in a world of variables.
The waiter clears away the last of the plates, and Grandpa leans back in his chair, fixing me with an earnest look. “Ethan,” he begins his voice, a timbre of seriousness that commands my full attention. Tessa’s hand finds mine under the table, a silent pulse of support.
“Your grandmother and I,” he continues, “we’ve been keeping something for you.” He produces an envelope from his jacket, worn at the edges but sealed with intention. My name is written across it in a steady hand.
“From the day you were born, we started a trust fund. It was meant for your education, your future.” His eyes twinkle with a kind of pride I’ve only seen in coaches after a hard-won game. “You’re of age now, Ethan. It’s yours.”
