Chapter 7: The Value of a Chance

Ever since I realized Natalie was reborn—thanks to those pop-up comments—I spent my days driving around, trying to clear my head. Sometimes I’d stop at a diner: the cracked vinyl booths, the smell of burnt coffee, and the faded pie menu taped to the wall. Anything to avoid the tension at home.

One day, driving by Natalie’s old school, I spotted Aaron kneeling at the entrance, begging the principal to let him audit classes. His backpack was battered, his sneakers coming apart at the seams. My heart twisted.

A few years back, his parents had died after a car accident, the family savings wiped out by ICU bills. Aaron was just a kid then, forced to close the family diner and live with his grandma in the country. Now, with senior year looming, he wanted a shot at a good university. But his rural high school’s SAT prep was a joke—even the teachers couldn’t answer half the questions. So Aaron mustered the nerve to come to the city, hoping for a chance. No one to help him, he went from school to school, begging for a spot.

Seeing the principal’s troubled look, I stepped out of my car. “Let him enroll. I’ll pay the tuition and handle the paperwork.”

Aaron and I aren’t related. The reason I helped him? Maybe because, in him, I saw something I’d never seen before: The chance to study—the very thing Natalie resented me for—was something another kid had to beg for. Life’s funny like that. One kid wastes what another would give anything for.

I took care of Aaron’s paperwork, hands smelling faintly of library dust and new paper. But as I reached my front door, I heard a commotion inside and my stomach dropped. I opened the door and nearly blacked out.

A gang of punks lounged on my couch, eating watermelon. The cushions were soaked in sticky juice, seeds everywhere, feet up on my once-pristine armrests. I remembered when that couch was new, how many overtime shifts I’d worked just to buy it. Now, it was trashed, just another casualty.

Watermelon juice dripped down their tattooed faces, mixing with the smell of body spray and cheap aftershave.

When they saw me, they all turned, freezing for a second. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, they called out:

“Chill, Mr. M! We’re just here for the vibes—and the snacks.”

“Who are you people? Why are you in my house?”

Even as I asked, seeing the bleach-blond kid sprawled in the middle, I already knew. Dylan, arm in a makeshift sling, piercings gleaming under the light.

A skinny guy with grayish hair jerked his thumb at Dylan. “We’re all Dylan’s crew. He’s here to see his future father-in-law, and we’re the support squad.”

“Get out.”

I glared at him, my voice flat and cold.

“Wh-what did you say?”

“I said get out.”

“Enough.” Dylan interrupted, annoyed. “Natalie!”

He called toward the kitchen. The microwave dinged.

Natalie, in an apron with flour on her cheek, hurried out, spatula in hand.

“What is it?”

Dylan nodded at me. “Didn’t you tell your dad we’re here to talk engagement?”

Natalie froze, then mumbled, “I wanted to give my dad a surprise.”

“Ha, a surprise? Your dad still wants to kick my friends out.”

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Seeing Dylan frown, Natalie hurried to apologize, her voice small. The spatula shook in her grip.

Once Dylan’s face softened, she turned to me. “Dad, this is my boyfriend, Dylan Parker. Our relationship is solid, so I wanted you to meet him. From now on, we’ll be family. Please take care of him.”

Her words hung there, sticky and sweet as watermelon juice seeping into my ruined couch. I looked at her, at the strangers in my living room, and wondered when exactly things had gone so far off course. And for the first time, I wondered if I even recognized my own daughter anymore.