Each word rips him apart, and I watch him absorb them, watch his face crumple further with each accusation.
“You’re right,” he whispers. “You’re right. I was useless. I am useless. I couldn’t have saved you even if I’d known because I was too busy trying to save myself from the bottom of a bottle.”
“Then why are you here?” I demand. “What could you possibly say that would make any of this okay?”
“Nothing.” He meets my eyes, and the honesty in his gaze is almost unbearable. “There’s nothing I can say that will make it okay. There’s nothing I can do to undo the damage I’ve caused. I know that. I’ve known it for years, every time I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the man I’d become instead of the father I should have been.”
He takes a step toward me, then stops, like he’s afraid of
