—When I received the grant, I used his last name for a while. Then, when I founded the gallery, I went back to my own. Not to honor him… but to close the book on him.
I swallowed.
“Ethan, I…”
He interrupted me with a gesture.
“I didn’t come here to hear apologies.”
—So… why did you ask me to come?
Her gaze softened slightly.
“Because I want to show you something else.”
She took out one last painting, covered with a black cloth. She slowly lifted it.
It was a portrait.
Of me.
Exactly as I looked the day I kicked him out: a hard face, empty eyes, the shadow of a door closing behind me.
But next to that figure, painted with an almost invisible stroke, was an outstretched hand. Mine.
He wasn’t touching the child, but he was there, as if he could still reach him.
“I never finished this painting,” Ethan said. “I painted it for years, trying to understand if at that time it hated me… or was just broken.”
I remained silent. Tears began to fall unbidden.
“I didn’t know you could paint,” I murmured.
He smiled sadly.
“You didn’t know how to love either. I suppose we both learned late.”
We stood there, looking at each other, with an ocean of years between us.
Finally, I took a deep breath.
—How… how can I fix it?
Ethan sighed.
“He can’t. But he can listen. There’s something he needs to know.”
He approached the desk and took out a sealed folder.
Inside was a yellowed envelope.
“My mother gave me this before she died. I never opened it until recently.”
My hands trembled when he opened it.
Inside was a medical document.
A paternity test.
My name. His name.
Result: 99.8% compatibility.
The world stopped.
“No…” I stammered, my throat tight. “It can’t be.”
Ethan looked at him without resentment.
“He is. You were my father. And Mom knew it. She never wanted to say anything because she was afraid I’d leave her.”
I felt like I was suffocating.
Every word I had said to him.
Every night I denied him a hug.
Every cold look.
And the day I kicked him out of my house… my own son.
I collapsed into a chair.
—My God… what have I done?
Ethan approached slowly.
“The same thing many parents do: forget that a child doesn’t need blood, only love.”
I put my hands to my face.
—Ethan… I have no right to ask for your forgiveness.
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said,
“I don’t need it. But there is something I want.”
-Whatever.
—I want you to call me son. At least once. Not for me… for you.