Jez had spent years trying to forget one particular morning. Unfortunately, the mind has a strange way of keeping the things we wish we could leave behind. Sometimes, all it takes is a familiar smell, a passing cloud or a few seconds of silence for everything to come back.
That afternoon, he was sitting beside the hospital window, watching the clouds move slowly across the sky. A small vase of roses stood on the table beside his bed. Their smell reminded him of home, of a time when he still believed that everything could be fixed.
He looked at his hands for a while. They were thinner than he remembered, and the veins showed clearly beneath his skin. Prison had taken a lot from him. So had the sickness that now kept him in that hospital room.
But there was one thing he could not blame on prison.
His father was dead, and Jez knew exactly why.
He remembered the day as though it had happened that morning. The weather had been beautiful. The sky was clear, and people were going about their business without knowing that something terrible was about to happen.
His father had always stood between him and the life he wanted. At the time, Jez considered that interference. He wanted freedom, money and the kind of respect that came with having power. His friends understood this about him, and they knew how to turn his frustration into something much worse.
They talked for months. Every conversation made their plan seem more reasonable than the last. They convinced themselves that his father was the obstacle standing in their way.
And then they did it.
Jez still remembered standing among the people who had gathered after his father's death. He cried with them. He answered their questions and played the part of a grieving son. Nobody seemed to suspect anything.
For a while, he even believed he had won.
He inherited what his father had left behind, but the things he had gained never brought him the satisfaction he had imagined. The house was still there, the possessions were still there, and the people around him continued to call him successful. Yet something had changed, and he could not explain it.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
A nurse walked in carrying his medication.
"How are you feeling today, Jez?"
"A little dizzy," he replied. "But I am alright."
She checked his condition, reminded him to rest and left the room.
He watched the door close.
For a moment, everything became quiet again. Then he heard it.
His father's voice.
It was not loud, but it was clear enough to make him turn towards the empty side of the room.
He had heard that voice before, especially during the nights when sleep refused to come. Sometimes it sounded like a memory. Other times, it felt as though his father were standing somewhere close, waiting for him to say something.
"Was it worth it, Jez?"
He lowered his head.
There was no answer he could give. He had spent years trying to justify what happened, blaming his friends, his circumstances and even his father's stubbornness. But none of those explanations could change the fact that he had been part of it.
He remembered the last conversation they had before everything happened. His father had looked at him for a long time, as though he wanted to say something but could not find the right words.
Perhaps he had already understood what his son was becoming.
Jez closed his eyes. He could almost hear the old man's voice telling him that some things, once broken, cannot be returned to the way they were.
He began to cry.
There was something particularly painful about remembering the love his father had shown him. Even after their disagreements, his father had never stopped wanting a better life for him. Jez had mistaken that concern for control, and by the time he understood the difference, there was nobody left to apologise to.
The nurse returned later and found him asleep.
But his sleep was not peaceful.
For years, Jez had believed that getting away with a crime meant escaping its consequences. He had eventually discovered that the law was not the only place where a person could be sentenced. Some memories follow you into places where no prison guard can reach.
His health had continued to deteriorate, and he had been taken out of prison for medical treatment. He knew he might return there once he was well enough. Yet the thought of another prison sentence frightened him less than the things waiting for him inside his own mind.
On the small table beside his bed lay an unfinished letter.
He had started writing it several times, but each attempt ended the same way. He could never find a suitable opening.
It was meant for his son.
He wanted to tell him about his grandfather, about the decisions that had destroyed their family, and about the truth he had hidden for so long. But how does a father explain to his child that he became the very reason their family fell apart?
Outside, the evening light slowly disappeared.
Jez reached for the letter again. His hands trembled as he picked up the pen.
This time, he managed to write one sentence:
My son, there are things I wish I had understood before I became the man I am today.
He stopped and stared at the words.
For the first time in many years, he was not trying to defend himself. He was simply trying to tell the truth.
And perhaps that was the hardest thing he had ever attempted to do.