Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
I tear my gaze away from him, staring at the window that looks over the deck and out onto the nearby mountains. My heart hurts. My throat aches. My head pounds.
This is all so familiar.
I try to sort through what to do next when what Fable said the other morning echoes in my head. You don’t have to solve it.
I’ve always solved his gambling problems. I’ve always enabled him. I’ve always fixed it.
And if I don’t stop, I’m going to wind up just like him. Maybe not an addict. Maybe not penniless. But loveless all the same.
That won’t do.
It’s time to do things differently. “Why don’t you sit down on the couch and I’ll make a pot of coffee for us?”
“Thank you,” he says, and his voice sounds genuine. Maybe it’s just for the coffee, but at least that’s a start.
A few minutes later, we’re sitting on the couch by the Christmas tree as the sun rises higher in the morning sky, the white snowfall from the other night sparkling and bright.
I hand him a steaming cup, still chewing on what to say exactly. As I gather my thoughts, I glance at the ornament my daughter made—a ceramic cartoon fireplace with four stockings hanging from it with names on them.
Dad, Mac, Penguin, and…Fable.
The three of us plus a cat. That’s what I want. I don’t want to be loveless. I don’t want to be tough all the time. I don’t want to be the guy who believes love is a lie.
I want a family. I want togetherness. I want to come back here year after year with the love of my life.
But I won’t be able to get to Fable unless I take care of this roadblock in my heart.
Sometimes you have to do the easier thing first, but eventually you have to do the hard thing.
Like now.
And I finally know what to do because of the love of Fable, my daughter, my mom, and Bibi. All the women in my life are extraordinary, and they love extraordinarily too.
It’s time for me to live up to their example.
I look my dad square in the eye, and I say, “You know what I’d like for Christmas?”
His brow furrows in confusion. He didn’t come here to give me a gift. “What’s that?”
“I’d like for you to go to rehab.”
He flinches. “But what about the debt? What about the money I owe Desert Springs? That’s going to be haunting me. I’ve got to take care of that first,” he says, desperate for another hit, another game, another gamble.
They say an addict needs to want to change. I’m not sure he does. But maybe the change will come if he no longer has a safety net.
“I’m not going to pay your debt.”
“But you have the money,” he says, his voice pitching up.
“I do, and I’m going to use that money to send you to rehab. I’m going to find a great facility for you. A program where you can check in for a month or so and get real help day in and day out. Someplace where you can get help so that next year I can actually invite you to Christmas and you can see your granddaughter and show us all your one-year chip.” I stop when my throat clogs with emotion. Deep breath. “I’ll handle all of that. I’ll take care of all of that. I’ll set it up.”
His jaw ticks, and he seems to fight off a traitorous tear. “But what about the money I owe?”
I hear Fable’s voice again, asking me if paying it off is going to solve anything.
I don’t have to solve it either. But perhaps I can help in a new way. A better way. A way that matters. “I am going to call Desert Springs, and I’m going to ask for a grace period. I’m going to arrange a payment plan for you so that you have plenty of time to get yourself together and then to pay it off. When you get out of rehab, I’m going to get you a job with my company. Maybe you’ll be a ticket taker at the Renegades. Maybe you’ll be an usher. Maybe you’ll restock the vending machines at one of my hotels. Or maybe you’ll find your own job. But you’re going to get a job and pay it off yourself. I’m not covering for you anymore.” I pause and collect myself. “And it’s not because of the money. It’s because I love you. And I want you to get well.”
He swallows, his throat working as more tears fall down his face. For a few seconds, he seems at war with himself. Like he wants to run to the door and hit the tables. He probably does. But, finally, with a shrug of resignation, he simply says, “Okay.”