He loved his father.
He also wanted parts of his life with no dead man's fingerprints.
During sophomore year, a professor recommended him for an internship at a satellite-imaging company.
Miles called Renee first.
She screamed so loudly he pulled the phone away.
Then she said:
“Tell me everything.”
He smiled.
That phrase mattered more than she knew.
Show me.
Tell me.
Small reversals of an old kitchen morning.
Darius became a physical therapist specializing in adolescent athletes.
His first job was inside a sports-medicine clinic where half his patients were teenagers convinced one injury would destroy their entire future.
Darius understood.
A sixteen-year-old basketball player once cried after learning he needed eight weeks off.
“My scouts.”
Darius said:
“You're fourteen.”
“Exactly.”
Darius almost laughed.
Then remembered himself.
He sat.
“Listen.”
“The sport matters.”
“Yes.”
“The opportunity matters.”
“Yes.”
“But your body is not a receipt that has to justify every dollar your parents spent.”
The boy stared.
Darius heard Marcus in the sentence.
Or Walter.
Or therapy.
Probably all three.
He smiled.
“Take eight weeks.”
The boy hated him.
Then came back healthy.
Renee eventually apologized to both sons separately for specific things.
Not one giant family apology.
Miles received the longest list.
Baseball glove.
Headphones.
Birthday check.
Blue jacket.
Sneakers.
Missed events.
Comparisons.
The things she remembered.
Then:
“There are probably things I forgot.”
Miles looked at her.
“Probably.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“Do you forgive me?”
Miles took time.
“For what?”
“All of it.”
“No.”
Her face changed.
He continued:
“Not like one big transaction.”
Renee listened.
“I forgive some things.”
“I understand some things.”
“Some still make me mad.”
“I love you anyway.”
Renee cried.
Miles smiled.
“That’s the answer.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
Darius's apology to Miles was different.
They were twenty-three and nineteen, sitting in Walter's garage.
Darius said:
“I knew more than I admitted.”
Miles looked up.
“About what?”
“Mom giving me your stuff.”
Miles stopped.
Darius continued:
“Not the money.”
“Not the check.”
“But the glove.”
“I knew it was yours.”