We sat apart from the group. Dad wouldn't look at me—that thousand-yard stare my grandfather used to get whenever he'd screwed up.
"Dad, is there a problem?"
He blinked, like I'd caught him somewhere else entirely. Then his eyes softened.
"I'm sorry, son. For being such a bad father."
"Why bring this up now?"
"Let me finish before I lose my nerve." He took a breath. "I'm sorry for never visiting you in the hospital. For blaming you for your mother's death. For not being there."
His eyes had gone vulnerable, pitiful almost, like he was already bracing for whatever sentence I handed down.
I had no memories of the old Max. Nothing here to forgive. And still, somehow, the ache of it found me anyway.
He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He was asking to be judged.
"Why didn't you visit the hospital?"
The question had been sitting in me for years. Somehow now felt like the moment.
He looked at the floor, face flushing red. "Because I'm a coward." Then nothing. I waited.
"You have your mother's eyes." His voice went soft. "Stubborn. Hot temper. Just like you. And a weak body—just like you. After we married, the doctors said a baby could kill her. She wanted one anyway. Stubborn, like I said."
He wouldn't look up.
"I kept saying no. You happened anyway." He swallowed. "Honestly? I wanted to get rid of you. She would've died before she let that happen. So, I worked myself half to death finding the best hospital money could buy. And she died in childbirth anyway."
He stared at the dirt like it owed him something.
"I remember holding you, looking at her lifeless eyes, thinking—if I'd just gotten rid of you like I wanted, she'd still be alive." His hands curled into fists. "I was so wrecked I handed you off to Matthew and Ava. I was scared of what I'd do if you stayed."
A shaky breath.
"I buried myself in work to forget. Never visited. Only ever watched you through a phone screen...When you were eight, they told me you had cancer. I wanted to see you so bad—but I couldn't do it. Couldn't look you in the eye." His voice cracked. "Couldn't watch those same eyes dying in front of me. So I hid instead."
He finally met mine straight on.
"That's why I never came."
His eyes waited for my judgment.
"That's pathetic." The words came out harsh, but they were true. "I don't have my memories. But even so—what you did was unforgivable."
He nodded quietly, lowering his gaze.
I couldn't remember what had happened. And still, somehow, I understood him—the pain, the guilt, all of it eating him alive. Understanding wasn't the same as forgiveness, though.
After a moment, he spoke.
"Can I still be your dad?"
The question hung there. The kind that decides everything that comes after.
"What was my mother's name?"
He looked up, just slightly.
" Sofia Rossi."
A beautiful name. Painful for both of us, in different ways.
The silence stretched. He kept his eyes on me, ready to take whatever I decided.
"You're not worthy of being a father."
His face fell like the floor had dropped out from under him.
"But you're worthy of a second chance."
His head lifted.
"One condition. Agree to it, and I'll be your son."
"Anything. Just ask."
His eyes lit up like he'd been handed a second life. The tears he'd been holding finally broke loose.
"You abandoned me. Neglected your one responsibility. So here's the condition—you're about to be a grandfather. Don't abandon that. Take care of my kids."
He lowered his head. Couldn't look at me. I heard him crying, quiet and broken.
"I agree." His voice cracked. "Thank you."
I left him there alone.
Forgiving him too fast wouldn't have lightened what he carried—it would've just let him off the hook. Maybe this was what he actually needed to sit with what he'd done, and learn that forgiveness isn't something you get just for asking.
"Max, what the hell? What am I hearing?"
Clementine was standing right in front of me, and there was no mistaking the anger on her face.
"What did you hear?"
"Don't play dumb. You're prepping for a war and walking into enemy territory alone. Are you insane? Did you even think about us? Why didn't you tell me?"
Shit.
"I was about to tell you everything."
"Don't you dare lie to me."
God, she was adorable when she got like this—stubborn and childish in a way she only ever let herself be around me.
"I was going to. But you looked so happy, I didn't have the heart to. I was going to tell you at camp."
I reached for her hand. She yanked it back.
"No. You don't get to do that."
She crossed her arms, her eyes going anywhere but me.
"You promised you'd stay. You promised us time. Was that a lie too?"
"It wasn't a lie. But I have a duty—to our family, to the community, to everyone who's counting on me. I can't be selfish, Clem."
I tried to soften my voice.
"It's one month. I'll come back fast. I promise."
She still wouldn't look at me.
"No. No more excuses. I've let it go every time. Listened every time. Not this time."
She finally met my eyes, her jaw set. Her voice came out sharp, but underneath the anger, I could see it—fear, plain and raw.
"You're going to listen to me—or I swear I'll do something."
Yeah. This was not going well.
"Okay, okay. I'm listening."
The smallest smile broke through, her arms still locked tightly across her chest.
"Until our babies are born, you're not going anywhere. I don't want them to be born without their dad. And I don't want to do this without you next to me."
"Clem, there's six months left, and—"
Her hand shot up.
"No. I don't want to hear it."
Her voice was firm, but the fear was right there underneath it.
"I don't know if your 'one month' turns into three, or a year, or never. So please. Just this once, listen to me."
Her eyes were shining now.
"Okay. I'm not going anywhere until the babies are born."
I paused.
"Any other demands, my lady?"
"None, Sir Knight."
A giggle broke through as she extended her hand like a queen granting an audience.
"But you may hold my hand. I permit it."
I grabbed it, pulled her in, and kissed her instead.
"Hey—I said hand!"
Her face went red, but she didn't pull away.
When we finally broke apart, I asked, "Who told you?"
I already had a guess.
"Can't say."
She slapped a hand over her mouth, as if that would somehow undo it.
"Michonne."
A slow, guilty nod.
"Don't do anything to her."
"I won't."
Though God knew I wanted to.
She'd used Clementine—used the one weakness that could take me apart—to box me in. Under different circumstances, that's the kind of thing that gets someone killed.
But she loved Clementine too.
That was the only thing saving her.
Didn't make it sting any less, knowing I'd walked straight into a trap somebody else had built for me.