“Hello,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “I’m glad you came.”

I struggled to find words. “I… I didn’t know,” I stammered. “I didn’t know what happened to you.”

He nodded, understanding rather than accusing. “I wanted you to see this,” he said, guiding me to a painting — a portrait of a woman, painted with striking emotion. My heart skipped a beat as I recognized her, my late wife, his mother.

“I painted it from memory,” he explained. “I wanted to honor her strength, her love… and her forgiveness.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words finally breaking through the dam of my regret. “I was wrong. I… I should have been there for you.”