Never a Hero

for God’s sake. She’s a miserable person, Owen. She’s not happy unless she’s unhappy.”
    I almost laughed. “Wow, Dad. Tell me how you really feel.”
    He sighed, suddenly turning serious. He began to worry at the stain on my table again rather than meet my eyes. “The thing is, I should have done more to shield you from her when you were growing up. I regret that I ended up hiding from her, letting you take the brunt of her venom. Once, when you were ten, I talked to a divorce attorney, but he told me I’d never be awarded custody. I was working fifty-hour weeks, and your mom was home. The courts almost always gave custody to the mothers back then, and unless I could prove she physically abused you, divorcing her would have meant leaving you with her.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Jesus, Owen, don’t feel bad for me, please. I can’t stand that. I’ve failed you. Over and over again, I failed you. I saw the way she berated you. The way she hurt you. The way she made your stutter worse by hounding you and humiliating you, and every time I tried to defend you, she’d get angrier and more hateful. And after that incident in high school with the Brewer boy.” He shook his head. “If I had it to do over, I’d have taken you. I’d have kidnapped my own son and snuck away in the night, but I . . .” His voice broke, and his words fell away. He took a ragged breath. “I was a coward. And I’m sorry.”
    I thought about it all—about how he’d wanted to help, but not known how. About how miserable I’d been. And yet now, I wasn’t sure it mattered.
    I looked around my apartment.
    My apartment.
    I’d finished school. I’d beaten my stutter. I’d finally beaten my mother, too. I’d escaped. And although I’d wasted more of my adult years than I liked to admit trying to find a way to please her, it was over now. I had a life that was in no way dependent upon her or her approval.
    I had joy.
    My dad sniffled, wiping tears from his cheeks. I reached out and put my hand on top of his. “I’m fine, Dad. I really am.”
    He beamed up at me. He turned his hand in mine to squeeze my fingers. “I see that, son. I want you to know, I’m proud of you. I always have been, but never more than today. Never more than when I saw you walk to the front of that church. You have a good job here. A good life.” His smile turned hesitant. “And if I don’t miss my guess, you have a boyfriend downstairs who’s crazy about you.”
    I blushed furiously. “I’m not sure about that.”
    “I am. I see the way he watches you.”
    “Things with Nick are . . .” Confusing? A disaster? Hard to explain?
    “Complicated?”
    “Yes.”
    “It seems like the worthwhile things always are.” He put his hand on my shoulder, giving weight to his words. “Owen, let me give you some advice. You can spend a lifetime being miserable, and all you’ll have later is regrets. But happiness? I don’t think you’ll ever regret that.” He hooked his hand behind my neck and pulled me closer. He kissed me on the forehead. “Be happy, son. Whatever it takes.”

    I spent all night thinking about what my dad had said. It was simple, and yet profound.
    Be happy.
    I’d spent my life being miserable—fearing my mom, being embarrassed by my arm, hiding in my apartment like some kind of criminal. I’d convinced myself that I didn’t deserve to have a life.
    But I did. Not only that, I deserved to be happy.
    And the next morning, I had a plan.
    At 10:00 a.m., I was pounding on Nick’s door.
    He’d just come from the shower. His hair was wet. He wore only sweats. His smile was uncertain.
    He was so gorgeous I could have eaten him with a spoon, but I tried to tame my raging hormones.
    “Hey.” He was acting wary, after the way we’d left things, but he let me in. “How’d things go with your dad last night?”
    “Really well.”
    “Good.”
    We stood there for a moment, silent and awkward.
    “I have a present for you,” he said suddenly. I followed him into the dining room. He picked something up from the piano bench and handed it to me.
    It was piano music. Several different pieces and different composers, but with one thing in common—they were all written for the right hand alone. I looked up at him in surprise. “Where did you get these?”
    “Online. I’ve been doing some research. It turns out there’s a lot of piano music written for one hand. The thing is, they assume it’s because your other hand is injured,